Forget Me, Forget Me Not
by The Pearl Maiden
Summary: Major AU. Erik and Christine have grown up together in the Opera Populaire until one fateful night Christine is forced to leave. 10 years later, Christine comes back to Paris to find things have changed. Erik is not the boy she once knew. YoungAdult! Erik/Christine. Complete. [Re-edited 1/13]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Originally, this story was written and posted a few summers ago. I have gone back through it and edited/tweaked some things. This is major AU, but I have tried to maintain canon-characterizations and preserve the integrity of the music.

I do not own "The Phantom of the Opera;" Just borrowing.

(see profile for further notes)

* * *

Chapter 1: Opera Populaire Opera House, Paris, France, 1881

_It is just as I remember! Oh my beautiful opera house…how I have missed you… your tunnels…your hidden secrets…I thought I would never see you again…_

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine Daaé snapped back to the present. The impatient carriage driver held out a calloused, grimy hand.

"Oh! Forgive me, Monsieur." Christine reached into her reticule and pulled out a few francs to pay for her passage into Paris. "Here you are."

The man tipped his cap and rumbled away down the crowded cobblestone street. Christine watched him go until he disappeared around the corner. Christine suddenly felt very alone. She gazed up at the double doors of the Opera Populaire. As much as she had dreamed of this moment, she somehow couldn't force herself to walk up the stone steps.

_It has been 10 years...you have suffered too much to stop now… _

She took a deep breath. Lifting her heavy travelling skirts above her ankles, Christine slowly ascended towards the entrance. Hesitantly, she opened the door and walked into the elaborate foyer. She gasped.

"It is beautiful." She whispered to herself. The sparkling marble floors and statues radiated the brilliance of the opera house. Ornate paintings and exquisite artwork decorated the vast room. Christine stared open-mouthed at the beauty of her old playground.

"Miss? Can I 'elp ye?"

An older woman with an unidentifiable brogue approached her.

"What? Oh, f-forgive me," Christine stuttered, "It is just so…"

The maid nodded appreciatively "Exquisite no? Aye. But I donnae get paid for standing 'round doin' nothin' so state ye business miss…?"

"Daaé. Christine Daaé. I am here to see Madame Giry. Are the Giry's still living here?"

The maid scoffed. "Aye. And as demandn' as ev'r. The old woman still rules with an iron fist." The woman leaned forward and whispered. "Though not as strict since the Opera Ghost began his reign."

"Opera Ghost?" Christine questioned.

"Where 'av ye been lass? 'Av ye not heard 'bout the Opera Ghost that haunts this place? Aye. Been here for the past decade so I'm told."

"Oh." Was all Christine said in reply. _Ghost?_ _But who would-_

"But ye didnae hear it from me lass. Come on then, to the old hag I'll take ye."

Numbly, Christine followed the odd cleaning maid up the marble steps and towards the expansive stage. Christine thought about this "Ghost" as she walked. _Who is he? I never ran into anything strange in the old passages... But…she said for the past ten years… maybe after I left…but who? Only Erik and I played in those passages…_

_Erik._

Christine shivered involuntarily.

* * *

"_Christine! Christine! Wake up!"_

_The little girl moaned. She rubbed her eyes. "Papa?"_

"_Christine. Wake up…we are leaving."_

"_Leaving? Where are we going?"_

"_I'll explain on the way, Lotte. Pack your things."_

"_But Papa-"_

"_Now Lotte! We have to go before the others wake up!"_

_Shaking in fear, Christine packed the few belongings that she owned. In her short 9 years of life, Christine Aminta- Marie Daaé had seen her father in many states that terrified her. Only Madame Giry had provided an effective escape from her father's alcohol-induced escapades. But Antoinette was asleep on the other side of the opera house…_

"_Lotte!"_

"_I-I am ready Papa."_

"_Come. Be quiet. I don't want anyone to hear us. Understand?"_

"_Yes Papa, but-"_

_She couldn't finish. Her father had grabbed her wrist and practically dragged her through the theatre. Even though she couldn't see anything, she knew he was taking her towards the front double door entrance. She didn't want to leave. Antoinette, Meg, and Erik were here. _

"_Papa? Are we coming back?"_

"_Shut up Lotte."_

_She didn't say anything else until they had reached the foyer. _

"_Sit still, Christine."_

_Her father scuttled to the front door, trying to unlock them without the key._

"_Papa?" she whispered, "Are coming back to see Madame Giry and Meg again?"_

"_No. We are moving to Marseille, on the coast. We will never come back to this haunted place again."_

"_But Papa! Who is going to sing with Erik? I can't leave him, Papa!"_

_"ERIK?" Her father turned on her with a look that haunted her in nightmares for weeks after."I told you to stay __from that cursed, illegitimate-"_

"_Papa! Don't say that!" Christine cried. __"He's my best friend I can't leave him! He doesn't have anyone, but me! Please Papa!"_

_Her father stormed towards her his face inches from hers._

"_Quiet Christine! You are_ never_ going to see that half-human, gargoyle again!" _

_Christine's eyes filled with tears. "No, Papa, I am not leaving with you." She clenched her fist and backed up defensively and yelled at the top of her lungs. "MADAME GIRY! MADAME G-"_

_**SLAP! **_

_Christine flew to the floor, her face burning in pain. _

_"How _dare_ you! You sniveling low-life! I have given you _everything_!"_

"_Gustave! What's all this noise? You're going to wake up Chris-" Antoinette Giry stopped short when she saw the little girl sobbing on the marble floor. "Mon dieu! What have you done Gustave?"_

_Christine was on the brink of emotional hysteria. "H-he is...making m-me l-leave."_

"_What's going on?" Giry glared at Gustave, her anger evident. _

"_Christine is my affair, not yours!"_

"_Her safety is my concern Gustave."_

_Christine sobbed, still lying prostrate on the cold, unfeeling ground. Then she felt a cool hand on her face._

"_Christine?" the familiar voice whispered. "Are you alright?"_

"_E-Erik..." Christine hiccupped._

"_Shhh…move your hand. Let me see your face."_

"_B-but it doesn't h-hurt anymore." She lied. _

_Young Erik gently moved Lotte's hand and looked into her deep brown eyes. _

"_I-I'll be f-fine, Erik..."_

"_Christine-"_

"_Go! If he sees you here, P-Papa is going to-"_

"_You! Get your filthy hands off my daughter!"_

_Gustave Daaé grabbed Erik by the shoulders, shaking him violently. "YOU!"_

"_Gustave!"_

"_Papa! No! Don't hurt him!" _

* * *

"Miss Daaé? Here's the lady ye lookn' fer. Though I cannae imagine why." The older woman mumbled. The other woman didn't respond. "Miss? Ye alright? Ye lookn' mighty pale."

Christine abruptly pushed back the painful memories. "Y-yes. Thank you so much madame, I can take it from here."

Leaving the maid, Christine hastily walked towards the musical commotion at the back of the stage.

_Antoinette…please… please help me forget…_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

Christine heard the boisterous, yet charming music long before she saw anyone. Excitement rushed over her as she neared the opera house's elaborate stage. The ballerinas and singing ensemble suddenly appeared as she peered around the backstage corner.

_With feasting and dancing and song  
Tonight in celebration  
We greet the victorious throng  
Returned to bring salvation_

_The trumpet of Carthage resound_  
_Hear, Romans, now and tremble_  
_Hark to our step on ground_  
_Hear the drums!_  
_Hannibal comes!_

"_Mon cheries!_ Perfection! Listen to the beats! Let the music flow through you as you dance!"

A commanding voice carried over Maestro Reyer's orchestra, causing Christine to look over towards the edge of the stage. Her head held regally and contemptuously, Antoinette Giry tapped her cane to the elite orchestra's beats.

"Angelique, you are falling behind! Count! Jacqueline, look up, my dear, at the audience. You are not performing for your toes!"

Young Daaé willed every fiber of her being from running to embrace the older woman. But that would be entirely _unladylike; _not that it really mattered to her, but she was sure that wouldn't be a desirable first impression after ten long years.

_Oh, Antoinette how I have missed you…_

Unable to contain herself any longer, Christine stepped forward, but short by a sudden announcement. Several men she didn't recognize stood at the front of the rehearsal. A tall, light-haired man spoke first.

"Ladies and gentlemen-Madame Giry thank you-may I have your attention please?"

"Monsieur Lefèvre I am _rehearsing_!" the maestro exclaimed quite exasperated. It was opening night after all, and there was no time to have useless, gawking businessmen about.

"Just for a moment Maestro Reyer and I will be out of your way." The manager replied.

Reluctantly, Maestro Reyer silenced his orchestra with Madame Giry following suit, demanding her ballerinas to quiet down.

"Thank you, Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer. As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these are all true-"

"Ah ha!" An over-made up, heavily dressed woman exclaimed haughtily. "I knew it!" Low murmuring and muttering buzzed on the stage. Antoinette rolled her eyes and flipped her long, thick braid with annoyance, much to Christine's amusement. Lefèvre, now the officially retired ex-manager, continued.

"-_and_ it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles André."

The assembled actors and theatre staff clapped enthusiastically. Watching from behind them in the shadows, Christine couldn't tell if they were welcoming the new owners or simply bidding the old one adieu.

"I am sure you have read of their recent fortune amassed in the _junk_ business." Monsieur Lefèvre sniffed.

"Scrap metal," the short one, Monsieur André, snapped defensively. "_Actually_."

Christine stifled a giggle. The man's harsh retort struck her as oddly comical by his inferior height and 18th century wig-like hair.

"Yes, well that's the past!" Monsieur Firmin now spoke, a tall, imposing man with dark brown hair and handsome features, "We are simply overjoyed at being here."

"That's because you haven't met the cast," Lefèvre muttered under his breath. "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now."

The over-made up, heavily dressed woman stepped forward, her jeweled fingers outstretched for the new owners to kiss.

"Your wish is our command, Signora." Firmin said passionately when he had kissed Carlotta's hand.

"Ahem," a ridiculously dressed man with a blue wig and red eyeshadow coughed impatiently.

"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi." Lefèvre hastily introduced.

André and Firmin bowed sweepingly.

"And finally, Madame Giry, our headmistress of ballet and Monsieur Reyer, our maestro."

The gentlemen bowed to both in turn.

"We are looking forward to working along side of you all to be sure," Firmin smiled broadly, clearly excited at the prospect of owning the world-renowned Opera Populaire. "Now we have one last announcement. Let us introduce you to our new patron, the Vicomte de Chagny!"

Christine saw a blonde-haired young man step out from her right. Christine gasped and involuntarily backed further in the shadows of backstage.

_It can't be…not here…not now! _

But much to her dismay, it was none other than Raoul, the last person on earth she wanted to see.

"I am honored to be back at the Opera Populaire," he said happily. Raoul's charming smile immediately endeared the women to eye him a bit closer. "I have many pleasant memories of this fine Opera house and I am looking forward to the première of Hannibal tonight, but I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal. I will let you resume maestro. Until tonight then?"

"_Thank you, _monsieur le Vicomte," Reyer sighed. His patience had clearly worn _very_ thin.

_Raoul…always the politician…smoothes over the roughest sheets with a smile and few flattering words... _Christine thought darkly as she saw the young man exit on the far side of the theatre hurriedly.

_He_ was certainly a new problem she didn't foresee.

_He can't help being charming…forgive him Lotte…it happened over 10 years ago… _her conscience whispered into her gloomy thoughts.

_I may forgive him, but I will never forget what he did. Never._

* * *

"_Lotte, where are you going?" Christine turned around to face her tall, lean-framed fourteen-year old cousin. Raoul de Chagny loomed over her, his deep sea-green eyes peering at her curiously. _

"_Nowhere." The seven-year old replied mysteriously._

"_Liar."_

"_Don't call me that Raoul!"_

"_I can say what I want. You can't stop me, Lotte." Raoul leaned close to the little girl's face, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "But if you want me to stop, tell me where you are going."_

_Christine hesitated. If she told him, he would then know her secret, if she didn't, he could tell Papa. She decided to stall._

"_What makes you think I am going anywhere?"_

_Raoul rolled his eyes, annoyed. "I am not stupid, Lotte. You have been sneaking food out of the kitchen lately, and you were mumbling something about seeing an angel of some sort when I walked in the room."_

"_Why did you walk in here?" she questioned evasively. _

"_Lotte, you're stalling. All I have to do is call Uncle Gustave…"_

"_Fine!" Christine relented angrily. "But you have to promise you won't tell anybody. Including Meg. "_

_Raoul frowned. "Why not?"_

"_Because I said so my dear Raoul." Christine said sweetly. "Or do love her too much?"_

"_No." Raoul mumbled, "Fine. I won't tell Meg."_

"_Promise?"_

"_I promise."_

_Christine paused dramatically. "Cross your heart?"_

"_Oh for the love of all the saints Christine! I swear on my honor as a de Chagny! Are you happy now?"_

_Christine sighed. "I guess it will have to do. Follow me."_

_The little girl picked up her carefully prepared basket with the "borrowed" food and walked toward the end of the hall the room that she, Meg, and Antoinette shared. She stood in front the floor length mirror and she peered back over her shoulder to stare critically at her cousin._

"_Are you sure you want to come into the coldest, darkest, scariest place in France?" she whispered strangely, doing her best to make Raoul leave._

"_What? The mirror?" Raoul retorted angrily. "Hurry up Lotte. I may just call your father after all..."_

_Christine shrugged. "As you wish Vicomte."_

_Setting her basket on the floor, Christine pushed with all her strength against the mirror. Much to Raoul's astonishment it slid open to reveal a dark passageway leading to the bowels of the opera house._

_Once more grabbing her basket, Christine rushed excitedly into the pitch-black tunnel._

"_Lotte wait for me!"_

_Raoul ran to catch up with his cousin. As soon as he stepped past the mirror, the mirror slammed shut behind him, causing him to jump nervously._

"_What a strange mirror…" he mused aloud as he looked through glass into the room he just left. "How did you figure it out Christine?"_

_Silence._

"_Christine?" Raoul called again. Then something crawled on his foot. "Ah! Rats!" He kicked off the rodent blindly and called again, this time quite frantically. "Christine! Where are you?"_

_It was so dark…he couldn't see anything…_

"_Christine!"_

"_I am right here you big ninny! Stop shouting!" Raoul saw Christine come up from somewhere down the passage, a lighted torch in her hand._

"_That wasn't funny, Christine Aminta-Marie."_

"_That's what you get for calling me a liar."_

"_You are so immature."_

"_Excuse me? And who has the torch?" Christine challenged._

_Raoul grumbled something incoherent. "Can we just get out of here?" he finally mumbled, shivering from a sudden draft._

"_Not yet. Stay close and you won't lose me. Hopefully." Christine smirked._

_Raoul followed his cousin further down the tunnel, a very uneasy feeling setting in his stomach…_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3, Opera Populaire catacombs, Paris, France, 1869

_Christine led Raoul down the torch-lit passage, silently praying to herself that Erik wouldn't object to the unexpected guest. She hated getting Erik upset. Even though he was only eleven, Christine had seen him in moods that could be as unpredictable and precarious as her father's. True, Erik had never hurt her or anyone else that she knew about, but she wasn't so sure how he would react to Raoul._

"_How did you find this place?" Raoul's inquisitive voice pulled Christine out of her reverie._

_Christine paused and turned to look at her cousin. He was staring at the stone walls, watching droplets of water drip and slide from unknown crevices._

"_A friend showed me." She responded quietly._

_Raoul turned to face her. "What friend?"_

_Christine sighed and kept walking further into the underground. "You'll see."_

_Much to her relief, Raoul didn't ask her anything more and they both continued walking in eerie silence. Going down a flight of stairs, their path soon became slightly more illuminated as they reached a path through the catacombs with candles adorning the walls. Christine and Raoul then reached a large area that stretched endlessly before them. The huge expanse went as far as the eye could see and had numerous stone archways and pillars ascending into the cavern's ceiling. His mouth slightly agape, Raoul stepped forward slowly, transfixed by the mysterious room and its unique architecture. _

"_Raoul! Watch out!"_

_Christine shouted, causing him to wake out of his trance. Raoul turned angrily on his cousin, his eyes glaring at her._

"_Will you stop trying to frighten me? I am just looking at-"_

"_Stop arguing and watch where you are going!" She snapped, interrupting him. _

_Raoul then saw that the ground sharply dropped off. The cavern's floor suddenly descended until it became several feet lower than the walkway they stood on._

"_You could have fallen and hurt yourself. Then I would have to drag your careless carcass-"_

"_Save it, Lotte. Lets just meet this friend of yours and-"_

"_Raoul? What are you doing here?"_

_The Vicomte and Christine both whirled around. _

"_Meg?" Raoul exclaimed._

_The petite Meg Giry stood before them, a parcel wrapped in cloth under her arm and an oil lamp in her hand lighting up her pleasant features. She stared disbelievingly at Raoul for a few moments, and then shifted her gaze to Christine. _

"_What have you done Lotte?" She asked her voice hardly above a whisper. "I thought we decided not to tell him."_

"_Tell me? I thought you were the one who wasn't supposed to know!" Raoul interjected. _

"_Me?" The thirteen-year old shook her head, her blond curls bouncing, "Heavens no, I have known about Erik since before Lotte came to the opera house."_

"_Erik? Who is he?"_

_Meg suddenly went pale. "You mean…Lotte hasn't told you?"_

_The older boy glared intensely at the little girl._

"_Lotte…" Raoul growled through clenched teeth._

"_I-I can explain." Christine stuttered. "I was going to tell you when we got closer to his home."_

"_Home? No one lives down here except rats and vermin Lotte!" Raoul shouted his face red with anger and frustration. "You've wasted my time!"_

"_I'm sorry." Christine whispered softly, frightened by Raoul's outburst._

"_That isn't enough!" Raoul's face was now inches from hers, his anger clearly escalating towards her. "A person could get himself killed down here and you're just gallivanting like an idiot! Wait until I tell your father..."_

"_Raoul," Meg placed a calming hand on his shoulder, "That's enough. She's just trying to be a good friend."_

_Raoul immediately backed off of Christine and frowned irritably, but instead of retorting, simply sighed heavily. Meg had that effect on him._

_Meg noticed that Christine was trembling and enveloped the girl a comforting hug. "Don't worry little Lotte, he won't tell Gustave." She whispered, "Let's just find Erik and give him the food we brought alright?" _

_Christine nodded submissively, her eyes showing fear and hesitation. Meg gently removed the flaming torch from Christine's firm grasp and thrust it at Raoul._

"_Make yourself useful." She snapped at the Vicomte._

"_Why?" He challenged holding the torch disdainfully, "It was her idea to come down here in the first place and-"_

"_SILENCE!"_

_The bickering immediately ceased as a demanding voice resonated throughout the catacombs, sending cold shivers down Raoul's spine. The threesome remained still, anticipating the voice to speak again. For several tense moments, no one insomuch as breathed. Then, a sweet melodic voice broke the weighty silence._

_Angel of Music_

_Hide no longer!_

_Come to me strange angel… _

_It took Raoul a moment to realize that it was Christine that was singing, but he had no chance to react as another deeper, stronger voice sung in response._

_I am your Angel…_

_Come to me: Angel of Music…_

_Christine looked to Meg and the older girl nodded. The seven-year old stepped carefully to the edge of the sharp decline of the cavern floor and jumped, landing skillfully on both feet. The girl secured the basket on her arm, reached for Meg's lamp, then nodded to the others to follow her._

"_Come on Raoul." Meg whispered as she also jumped down gracefully. Raoul followed suit, his doubt increasing every passing second._

"_What was-"_

_Meg abruptly placed a finger on his lips and shook her head, preventing him from conversing further._

"_Stay quiet." _

_Raoul concurred, his interest overcoming his apprehension. Lotte led the way ahead, her movements precise and practiced as she moved deeper into the expansive yet secure den. _

_The eerie lighting of the stone walls added to the suspense as Christine reached a broad tunnel that was beneath an open archway. Raoul instantly noticed a ghostly yellow glow at the end of the passageway, causing him to wonder what was at the end. _

_Could it be the source of this mysterious 'Erik'?_

_His curiosity was at its peak since the discovery of the sliding mirror. Ignoring the hiss of Meg to wait, he rushed up behind Christine as she slowed her pace directly under the stone archway. Christine suddenly stopped. Raoul, not expecting her immediate halt, stumbled past her, clumsily landing on the stone ground. He cursed darkly and dusted himself off._

"_That's it!" he whirled on his younger cousin, "I am weary of this place and demand you to lead us out of here this instant!"_

_Christine didn't reply. She gulped nervously and stared at a point right above Raoul's left shoulder. _

"_Well?" He demanded angrily._

"_I thought I told you to be quiet, Vicomte." The unnatural voice boomed._

_Raoul spun around. Facing him, with fury in his gray eyes stood a boy. _

_A boy with a white mask._


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: For the sake of this AU, I decided that Erik has a full head of jet black hair. His deformity is limited to his face.

* * *

Chapter 4: Opera Populaire, Paris France, 1869

"_Mon dieu." Raoul gasped._

"_God doesn't exist here, dear Vicomte." _

_Raoul almost yelped in fear. The masked child's lips hadn't moved to form the words. He just spoke without…speaking? How was that possible?_

"_W-who are you?" The older boy's voice hardly rose above a whisper._

_The gray eyes glinted wickedly. "The Devil's Child."_

_A terrible silence ensued._

_The drip-drop-drip rhythm of distant water was the only noise and the intense stillness was enough to drive a person insane._

"_E-Erik?" a soft, hushed tone murmured._

_The white-masked head shifted ever so slightly. Though no one noticed it, his eyes had softened considerably. _

"_Christine." This time his lips articulated the name._

_The girl sighed in relief. He didn't sound angry, irritated maybe, but when didn't he sound irritated?_

"_Meg and I brought you something."_

"_I can see that." Erik narrowed his piercing eyes, boring them into Raoul. "I wasn't ever expecting him here."_

"_He can be…insistent at times." Meg now spoke up, her blue eyes also watching Raoul critically._

"_I-I'm sorry Erik, but he said he was going to tell Papa if he couldn't come along. I had to bring him." _

_Christine's dark brown eyes pleaded for her friend's understanding._

_Erik nodded, his scrutinizing gaze still trained on Raoul. By now, the Vicomte had somewhat recovered from his shock and had resumed is arrogant stance and superior air. The two boys stared at one another, daring the other to look away. They sized up one another quickly, contemplating possible weaknesses. _

"_My name is Erik." Erik said as politely as he could, but only for the sake of Christine. _

"_Vicomte Raoul de Chagny," the older boy replied not missing a beat, "But I guess you already knew that."_

"_Figured that out all on your own?" Erik retorted. "I'm impressed."_

_Christine and Meg glanced at each other nervously. _

_This was not going to end well. _

_Raoul gritted his teeth. "I'll have you know-"_

"_Gentlemen," Meg cleared her throat, "Glad you've met, but the food is getting cold and Mother will be expecting us soon."_

_Neither Erik nor Raoul flinched. They stood confidently refusing to give in to the other._

_Meg looked at Christine pleadingly. The little girl sighed. Christine picked up her skirts and gingerly started to climb up the stone to reach where Erik was standing. Instinctively, Erik bent down to help her ascend the incline. Christine shuffled up to stand next to him, her basket clutched tightly in her hand._

_Raoul couldn't help but grin triumphantly. 'This insolent has a weakness… and a girl no less'_

_Immediately, he felt a hard smack on his arm._

"_Ow! What was that for?" he growled._

"_Stop gawking and help me up!" Meg snapped harshly, abruptly ending his vain thoughts. _

_Meg and Raoul soon made their way up to stand on the high platform of stone. Erik greeted them with a smug grin. _

"_What are you staring at?" Raoul spat._

_Erik pointedly ignored him._

"_What did you bring me?" Erik asked facing Christine, his tone slightly demanding._

"_Mainly bread and cheese, but I did manage to sneak some sweets." Christine piped up excitedly, "I would have gotten more, but the cook hardly left the kitchen. Afraid of someone stealing her precious supplies I suppose."_

"_I wonder why." Raoul mumbled under his breath. _

_Meg then spoke, describing the wrapped parcel she had carried through the catacombs. "I brought a slab of last night's ham, along with a small bottle of wine. It isn't much, but along with Lotte's goods you should be alright for the rest of the week." _

_Decidedly, Erik took the basket and smoked ham. His thin frame was barely hidden behind his loose-fitting trousers and over-sized white shirt. Erik awkwardly cleared his throat, suddenly remembering the manners Antoinette had desperately tried to instill in him. "Thank you."_

"_You're welcome, Erik." Meg replied._

_Raoul snorted, annoyed. A chilling draft had begun to whistle through the caves, and he was getting impatient to return to the surface._

_Erik raised his one visible eyebrow in amusement, "Afraid of a little wind Vicomte?"_

"_Afraid of sneaking into the kitchen to steal your own meals?" Raoul snapped, his voice acidic._

_Erik's gray-green gaze bore daggers into Raoul's skull, his temper flaring. "Trying to live is no crime." His tone was a menacing growl. _

"_I hardly call this living."_

_Erik suddenly stood in front of Raoul, his mask nearly grazing the Vicomte's face. "What do you know about the way I live? Everything you have has been given to you!" _

"_Of course!" Raoul stood his ground, barely standing taller than the younger boy. "The poor boy with no family or money. Is that the best card you could play? The victim?"_

"_Raoul," Christine's voice shook, terror running rampant through her veins. "Don't."_

"_Tell me Erik," Raoul scoffed, "Are you so low that you hide behind the skirts of my cousin?"_

_Raoul leaned dangerously close to Erik, oblivious to the signs of scarcely restrained rage on Erik's features._

"_Or do you hide behind that pitiful mask?"_

_An animal-like roar ripped through the air as Erik pummeled his shoulder into Raoul's gut. The boys crashed into the stone ground, a blur of flesh and clothing. Erik's advantage of surprise and agile movements had him sitting on top the other young man, sending punch after blow into Raoul's face.  
_

"_No!" Christine screamed._

"_Enough!" Meg snatched Erik by the scuff of his collar and yanked him off of the Vicomte. Erik slid onto the cold floor, his shirt torn and black hair askew. Raoul had barely escaped with his facial bones intact. Meg dragged him upright, his nose spewing blood all over his clothes. _

"_You will pay for that you insolent piece of-"_

_"Be silent!" Meg heaved Raoul back down the stone floor's incline. _

"_This is far from over, Erik."_

_Meg ignored de Chagny and turned to Christine. "Come on Lotte. It's time we left. Mother will be expecting us before supper."_

_Christine nodded numbly. Meg helped Raoul back through the passages, her oil lamp in one hand and Raoul limping along on the other. When the two were out of sight, Christine turned to Erik, her brown eyes nearly overflowing with tears._

"_Erik-"_

"_I'm fine." Erik snapped harshly, standing up slowly. Miraculously, his snow-white mask still stuck to his face. _

_Christine swallowed painfully hard. "I-I am s-sorry about Raoul. I-I tried to stop h-him, but…"_

_Christine broke into sobs. Erik's anger quickly melted, his heart feeling for the young girl. _

"_Shh…It's alright." He placed a hand on her shaking shoulders, his tone comforting. "Please don't cry."_

_Christine sniffed, her watery gaze fixed wonderingly on him. "Y-you're not angry?"_

_Erik shrugged, his face breaking into a mischievous grin. "I made him bleed didn't I?"_

_Christine looked shocked for a moment, then giggled, relieved. "His nose looked positively awful." _

"_He's going to be sore for days. Weeks if we are lucky."_

"_Weeks without Raoul? Maybe you should beat him more often!"_

_Erik looked at the girl incredulously, then they both burst out laughing. _

"_Lotte!"_

_Meg's voice resounded throughout the cave, calling from somewhere distant._

"_Coming!" Christine responded, her giggles still apparent in her voice. _

"_You should go, Christine. Madame Giry will be missing you." Erik said, his own face cracked in a rare smirk._

_Christine picked up the torch that Raoul had flung aside, and stepped gingerly to the edge of the raised stone platform. Then she turned quickly and planted a kiss on Erik's bare cheek._

"_Thank you for not being upset." Christine jumped down into the pit, and skipped gaily back to the surface. _

_She left a very stunned Erik behind her._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

"All they want-a is-a _dancing_!"

A murderously high pitched shriek shattered Christine's reverie.

"Ah! I hope the Vicomte is as excited by dancing girls as your new managers!"

Daaè jerked to attention as she quickly realized she had been daydreaming _again_. She mentally chastised herself.

'_Focus, Lotte! Concentrate on seeing Antoinette… Quit daydreaming like an oblivious, gallivanting idiot…'_

"-because I WILL NOT BE SINGING!"

Christine suddenly realized that the soprano, Carlotta, was screaming at the new managers André and Firmin, apparently threatening not to sing at the gala that night.

"What do we do?" André asked, completely clueless as most men were when it came to divas.

"Grovel." Lefèvre mumbled quite unsympathetically.

André and Firmin hastened to detain Carlotta from her abrupt and theatrical departure.

"Signora!"

"Prima donna!"

"Bella diva!"

"Goddess of Song!"

'_This is ridiculous…' _Christine observed.

"Si! Si! Si!" Carlotta screeched in incomprehensive Italian.

"Signora Giudicelli I was hoping you would gift us with a private rendition," Gilles André flattered, "Mousier Reyer isn't there a rather fabulous aria for Elissa in Act Three?"

"Well yes, but-"

"_NO_!" Carlotta burst out loudly, "Because I do not have-a my costume for Act Three because _somebody_ not finish it-a! And-a I 'ate my hat!"

'_She ate her hat?' _Christine's senses reeled in confusion, trying to decipher the woman's deafening shouts._ 'Oh…_hates_ her hat…'_

As if Carlotta's outburst wasn't bewildering enough, the soprano dramatically burst into tears.

"Signora, perhaps another time-" Firmin tried.

Carlotta dried her forced sobs remarkably fast. "If-a my managers command."

Christine had never seen such conceit in her entire life.

"Monsieur Reyer?" Giudicelli questioned the maestro, daring him to refuse her.

Reyer rolled his eyes theatrically. "If my _diva_ commands."

"_Yes_, I do."

"This should prove interesting_…" _Christine mused aloud to herself.

"Everybody very quiet! You as well!" Carlotta snapped to no one in particular. A sour-faced, red-cheeked woman hurriedly brought a spray bottle of some sort which she promptly squirted into Carlotta's throat.

"Signora?" Reyer held his conductor's wand expectantly his features a portrait of longsuffering.

"Maestro."

The melodious notes of the beautiful aria coming from the piano shushed the gathered ensemble, all anticipating Carlotta's wondrous voice.

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye…_

_Remember me,_

_Once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try… _

Christine cringed in pain, silently wishing she could suddenly go deaf. Christine Daaé had heard _Think of Me, _and that was _not _how it was meant to be sung. Apparently someone agreed with her.

Before anyone could react, a groaning creak was heard and a hanging backdrop suddenly came crashing down straight atop Carlotta Giudicelli.

* * *

The Phantom of the Opera was not in a good mood.

Not at all.

First of all, he had woken up with a painful crick in his neck only to realize that he had slept in late and had already missed half of the final dress rehearsal for the opening of Chalumeau's _Hannibal _that evening_._

Erik splashed cold water from his vanity onto his bare face, and ran his fingers through his hair, hastily attempting to tame the thick mass. Grabbing whatever was within reach, Erik quickly pulled on a pair of black trousers, white undershirt and a simple black vest. He snatched his gloves and cloak, slapped on his white half-mask and jumped into his gondola; only to notice that he had forgotten to put on his socks and boots.

Erik had then shouted some rather atrocious language that would have made a sailor blush.

_Finally_, Erik made his way across his recently formed underground lake and up into the rafters of the Opera Populaire. He immediately realized that the new managers had just been introduced.

Needless to say, he wasn't exactly thrilled.

'_Now I'm going to have to break in a new set of mangers… joy…' _

Erik leaned over the wooden railing enclosing the area above the stage, his tall silhouette scarcely visible to the crowd below.

"Signora Giudicelli I was hoping you would gift us with a private rendition," the short manager was saying, "Mousier Reyer isn't there a rather fabulous aria for Elissa in Act Three?"

'_Fabulous? For a dying cow, perhaps…' _he mused.

"_NO_! Because I do not have-a my costume for Act Three…"

Erik rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. '_Will someone please strangle her?' _he thought darkly.

'_You could always do it.' _A sinister voice in his sub consciousness whispered.

'_I don't hurt women…' _Erik reminded himself, frowning at his own gloomy musings.

_'Not yet...'_

"Everybody, very quiet!" The Italian woman shouted bringing Erik to glance back on stage.

The Phantom grunted, irritated.

'_What is she doing now?'_

Erik watched Monsieur Reyer cue the pianist. _'Oh no…'_

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly, _

_when we've said_

_GOOOOOODBYYYE…_

_Remember me,_

_Once in-a while—_

_Pleazz-a promise me _

_YOU'LLL TRRY… _

Erik grimaced as his musically heightened senses amplified all of Carlotta's vocal faults. Instinctively, he searched for something to throw at her.

"Perfect." His half-concealed face broke into a lopsided grin for the first time that day.

He swiftly unraveled a rope bolstered to a large wooden peg.

_When you find that _

_once __again you long_

_To take your heart—_

Erik watched the falling backdrop flap noisily and then collide with the pompous singer.

"Aaaaaah!" The Italian female screeched.

"It's the Opera Ghost!"

"He's here! He's with us!"

"It's the Phantom of the Opera!"

Screams of surprise and fright filled the opera house and caused Erik to smirk, satisfied.

"For heaven's sake Buquet! What's going on up there?" Angry shouts caused the head stagehand, Joseph Buquet, to half-drunkenly stumble to the spot where the backdrop had moments before been securely hanging.

Erik slipped silently behind a suspended curtain as Buquet pulled up the fallen drapery.

"Don't look at me!" Joseph whined, "As God's my judge I wasn't at my post."

'_Of course you weren't… ' _Erik thought sourly, _'probably cuddling some poor girl in your filthy grasp…'_

'_You're just jealous…' _the evil influence whispered, '_You were never touched or allowed to touch…' _

Erik promptly pushed the rising memories into the dark recesses of his mind. He refused to acknowledge the ache that pounded in his chest, reminding him of his past…his mother…screaming…cursing…at _him_…her own _son…_the _pain…_

No. He would not think about that. Pain was weakness; and he was not weak.

"Please Monsieur, there's no one there!"

Buquet's slurred tone echoed throughout the theatre, obliging Erik come back to the present.

"Or if there is, well then, it must be a ghost."

"That's my cue." Erik grumbled, his inaudible voice sardonic. "Now, one concluding order of business to properly introduce the two gentlemen to my theatre…"

Erik reached into his boot to retrieve a note he had written the night before and flung it carelessly near a pile of props backstage. Just as he expected, Madame Giry's acute eyesight caught the movement of the envelope and she gracefully strode to pick up the letter. She broke the blood red wax seal of the skull and briskly read the note. Erik was almost certain he saw Antoinette smirk in suppressed amusement.

"Signora," The Phantom turned his attention back to the befuddled new managers. André was the one speaking once again. "These things do happen." he said sheepishly.

"For the past three years 'these things do 'appen'!" Carlotta shouted, her accent shrill. "And did you stop them from 'appening? No!"

"Signora Giudicelli you must realize we have just arrived." Firmin attempted, "You must give us a chance to deal with the…er… _ghost_. I am sure in time all _superstitious _activity will be put to rest."

"You think so monsieur?" Madame Antoinette Giry calmly questioned her feminine poise and composure demanding absolute regard.

"What makes you think otherwise Madame?" André sniffed indifferently.

"I have a message from the Opera Ghost." She stated simply.

"Oh God in heaven! You are all obsessed!" Richard Firmin cried, exasperated.

'_As you soon will be…' _Erik mused.

Madame Giry resumed unfazed by the outburst. "He welcomes you to his opera house-"

"_His _opera house?" Firmin interjected.

"-And commands that you continue to leave Box _five," _Antoinette stressed her words by gesturing to the ominous box with her cane, _"_empty for his use. And reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?" Both managers exclaimed.

"What?" Madame Giry questioned obviously enjoying the gentlemen's discomfort. "Mousier Lefèvre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month."

"Twenty thousand francs?" Firmin repeated, shocked, snatching the mysterious letter from Giry.

Erik groaned. "These men are deaf as well as stupid."

"Perhaps you can afford more with the Vicomte as your patron." Antoinette suggested, her wit causing Erik to chuckle to himself. He decided he would seriously contemplate an increase in salary.

"The Vicomte de Chagny will hardly pay a…a…_phantom!" _André cried incredulously.

Madame Giry shrugged. "Do not say I did not warn you messieurs." Antoinette turned back to her ballerinas succinctly commanding them to prepare to continue their rehearsal.

Monsieur Reyer followed suit. "Excuse us messieurs." He rapped on his music stand for all the chorus members and instrumentalists to go back to work.

"_Mon dieu_, what have we gotten ourselves into?" Firmin sighed as he and André quickly stepped aside as the dancing girls once again began to move about the stage.

Erik, seeing as there was no other ghostly activities to perform, soundlessly slid out of his hiding place and made his way back to his lair to rest. He hadn't slept well in days and the exhaustion was catching up with him.

Before he left however something caught his eye.

He paused as he observed a young woman standing backstage, watching the rehearsal. Her somewhat mussed apparel suggested she had been traveling. Her brown hair fell prettily down her back in tight ringlets and by the set of her shoulders Erik could deduce she was a confident, independent female. Not to mention attractive.

'_Probably a spy from another opera house…'_ he told himself hurriedly, uncomfortable with that odd feeling fluttering in his chest.

He momentarily contemplated scaring her away, but thought the better of it. Besides, he was too tired to deal with anyone presently.

Instead, Erik decided to have a little fun.

"_Antoinette." _Using his gift of ventriloquism, Erik threw his tenor voice near to Giry's ear, soft enough to where only she could hear it.

Madame Giry immediately stopped snapping at her dancers, her face gone slightly pale.

"_Antoinette." _He called again.

Antoinette relaxed a bit and arched a dark eyebrow to signify she had heard him.

"_Young woman, near the spare curtains…make her leave."_

The ballet mistress squinted for a bit then found the dark-haired girl. She nodded to him imperceptibly and confidently made her way across stage.

Then, with a swish of his cloak, Erik strode back into the bowels of the theatre.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

Christine Daaé watched as the gathered cast and gentlemen cry in disbelief and terror as the Madame read the conditions of the Opera Ghostafter witnessing Carlotta's abrupt aria.

"-And commands that you continue to leave Box _five,_ empty for his use. And reminds you that his salary is due."

'_A ghost with a salary?' _Christine furrowed her brows, completely baffled as to what she was hearing. _'My...what has happened in the last decade? Ghosts with private boxes, salaries…whose idea of a jest is this?' _

"The Vicomte de Chagny will hardly pay a…a…_phantom!" _

"Whatever you say, but do not say I did not warn you messieurs." Christine watched Antoinette order her students back into their positions.

'_Antoinette seems to actually believe in this apparition. That's odd…she's always been so sensible… so serious…' _

Christine sighed heavily. This is not what she had expected to come back to. She felt confused and even more mentally and physically fatigued than when she had been in those jolting coaches on her way from Marseille.

Marseille.

She had come here hoping to forget that horrid place. What had happened to her beautiful Opera Populaire? What rumor dared destroy her place of refuge?

Now, the only thing she could do was wait. Wait for Antoinette to pull away from her dancers, just for a moment, just for an opportunity to talk to her…to explain….

Suddenly, an eerie sensation stole into her body. She could feel a scrutinizing gaze bear into her back, freezing her solid. The hairs on her neck and arms rose and goose bumps formed on every inch of her skin. Christine was painfully aware that most men in the opera house couldn't be respectable if their life depended on it. She had grown up around it as a girl; she knew. The gaze intensified and Christine felt as if she was suffocating. Her lungs constricted in incomprehensible panic. She dare not look behind her.

'_Breathe…in…out…in…out…' _

Christine shut her eyes, every forced breath shaking in terror.

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine jolted, her chocolate-brown eyes wide.

"Mademoiselle, are you well?"

"M-Madame Giry?" The young girl gasped.

Antoinette Giry was standing a few feet in front of her, her smooth brow wrinkled in polite concern. At the mention of her name, the ballet mistress stepped closer, her hazel eyes betraying slight confusion and curiosity.

"Yes I am Madame Giry. Can I help you?"

'_She doesn't recognize me…_'

Christine swallowed hard and opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. Anxiety and fear paralyzed her voice into silence.

Compassion filled the older woman's countenance and she placed a comforting hand on Christine's arm.

"Perhaps, you are looking for someone? A dancer or a chorus member?"

"I…" Christine shut her eyes once more and took a deep trembling breath. "I-I was looking for you."

"Me? _Pourquoi mon chéri? "_ Antoinette chuckled, kindly prodding to assist the poor girl.

"Because…because…I-I was hoping you… you could help me." Christine's voice quivered.

"Oh? Interested in the ballet? Well, my dear you have come at a tremulous transition in management and I am afraid you would have to come another time to-"

"No!" Christine exclaimed rather abruptly, her sudden assertive statement causing Antoinette to stop in mid sentence. Antoinette frowned at being so rudely interrupted by a younger person.

Christine immediately realized her mistake.

"I-I mean 'no' to the ballet, Madame…I could never dance very gracefully."

"I see. But why exactly are you here? As you can see I am very busy and I must return to my students."

Christine sighed. "Forgive me Madame, I didn't mean to. It's just that…it has been so long… I just wanted…I wanted to…oh!"

The girl had lost all self-control. Forgetting the fright that had threatened to consume her sanity, Christine threw herself at the other woman. She collapsed in Antoinette's arms, sobs wracking her petite frame. Antoinette stood rigid in shock but quickly recovered and instinctively soothed the young girl.

"Shh…my dear…it's all right." Madame Giry cooed her alto voice calming.

"I-I thought…I'd never s-see you again…Papa said we would never come back…he…he swore at me when I… I asked him to… bring me here to see you and Meg…and…and…"

Christine wept, her salty tears soaking Antoinette's dress. The older woman hardly noticed.

"Who has done this to you _ma jeune fille_?" Antoinette gasped, scarcely understanding Christine's cries.

"Gustave…" Was the quivering response, so soft the woman wasn't sure she heard right.

"Gustave?" Madame Giry repeated confounded, then, her heart stopped. _'It can't be…'_

Grasping Christine by the arms, Antoinette pulled the young woman upright to look her in the eye.

"Is Gustave your father?" Antoinette inhaled sharply, trying to keep from trembling.

"Y-yes… he is…"

Madame Giry suddenly noticed the curly brown hair, the chocolate-shaded irises, creamy-colored skin… Her own hazel eyes widened in realization.

"Christine? Christine Daaé?" she whispered.

"Y-yes…it's me…"

Antoinette gave a cry of astonishment and clutched Christine into her embrace. The two women grasped each other desperately, both of them sobbing uncontrollably.

"_Mon dieu…mon dieu… Elle est vivante... Elle m'est retournée…" _Antoinette murmured, stroking Christine's dark locks.

"Oh Madame…I've missed you so." Christine breathed in the calming scent adorning Antoinette and steadied herself as best as her emotions would allow. Madame Giry rocked the girl in her arms scarcely believing what was happening.

* * *

By now, several of the dancing girls had begun to stare and whisper as they witnessed the odd sight of their usually solemn instructor weeping. It was certainly something they didn't see everyday.

"Who is that girl?" A red-head asked her friend.

"I don't know, Sorelli." The other girl replied, "But she must be important to have the Madame crying."

"What a strange day, Josephine," Sorelli mused. "First Monsieur Lefèvre's retirement, the new management, with that _dashing_ patron and the Opera Ghost's-"

"What's going on?" A sweet-sounding voice asked worriedly. The two gossips turned abruptly to see Meg Giry, the prima ballerina step up to them.

"You don't know?" Sorelli spat rudely. "She's_ your_ mother is she not?"

Meg's status as the Opera Populaire's best female dancer didn't exactly make her the best liked; particularly to vain girls such as Sorelli. In addition to her being the head mistress's daughter some thought she didn't deserve the prestigious position. At twenty-five years of age however, Meg had clearly earned her place as prima ballerina.

"What she means to say is that when we had finished the Slave routine, we saw you mother sobbing all over that poor girl." Josephine explained placidly, "We have no idea why."

Meg's blue eyes became troubled and she wrung her hands in anxiety. She had never seen her mother so distressed before, and certainly not in public.

'_Whatever is going on it must be serious to have mother in this state…'_

She became even more concerned as a small crowd had begun to gather around Antoinette and girl, and neither seemed to notice. Meg decided to try to give Antoinette as much privacy as possible.

"Thierri!" Meg called one of the older, more experienced male dancers, "Gather the all dancers in the ballet foyer. Tell them to take a few moments to rest their feet. We will resume shortly."

Thierri nodded and escorted the buzzing crowd out to the foyer behind the stage. Meg hastily told Maestro Reyer to excuse the dancers for a few moments and cautiously tiptoed toward her mother and the mysterious young woman.

"_Remercie Dieu vous êtes sûr…" _Meg heard her mother say, her voice aquiver with intense emotion.

"Mother?" The blonde girl spoke softly, not wanting to startle to two women. "Mother is everything all right?"

Antoinette turned to look at her only child. A joyous smile lit up her features and she whispered into the other girl's ear.

"Look my dear."

The brown-haired girl lifted her tear-streaked face from the Madame's bosom to stare at the bewildered Meg. Her wide doe eyes took one glance at the ballerina and slowly released her firm hold on the older Giry.

"Meg?" She questioned as if speaking to a hallucination.

"Yes, but how-"

The young woman squealed in delight and squeezed her into a tight hug, shocking the reserved Meg Giry considerably. Meg glanced at Madame Giry in confusion and stared down at the other damsel who was crushing the air out of her lungs. Antoinette just laughed, a warm chuckle bubbling in her throat. Meg thought that her mother had gone mad.

"Mademoiselle…do I…know you?" The dancer gasped desperate trying to make sense of the peculiar situation.

"Know me?" The maiden exclaimed, quickly loosing Meg from her grip. "It's me…Christine!"

Meg choked, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.

"C-Christine Daaé?" She squeaked.

It was Christine's turn to giggle at the older girl's shock. "Do you know any other Christine's?"

"Saints and angels! You're alive!" Meg pulled Christine back into her arms. "I thought you were in Marseille…we didn't know…we heard nothing…I was afraid you had…that something had happened-"

"I am quite fine I assure you." Christine grinned at her friend's stuttering, she herself finally recovering her poise.

"B-but look at you!" Meg cried her astonishment still evident.

"What?" Christine worriedly glanced down at herself, suddenly aware of her slightly mussed dress.

"You…you've…I mean you're…you're…"

Madame Giry laughed once again, stepping up to her daughter and Christine.

"I think what Meg is attempting to say is that you have grown up. We hardly recognize you, my dear!"

"Oh that," Christine sighed, relieved they hadn't found something unsatisfactory with her. "Well it has been a life changing decade, _Maman_."

Antoinette smiled at the cherished term Christine had used to call her as a child. The aged woman clasped Christine, convincing the both of them that, in fact, the other was real.

"It has been far too long, _mon petite."_

"'_Mon petite'?"_ Meg smirked, a conniving twinkle sparkling in her eyes. "Mother, I do believe Lotte was 'petite' last time we saw her. She was flat as a board! Now look at her! Her figure marks the sign of a _woman_. I'm surprised she doesn't have suitors kissing the ground she walks on!"

Christine blushed modestly, acutely aware of how she had filled out during her teenage years.

"You flatter me, Meg."

"Flattery is false praise, my girl." Madame Giry placed a hand on Christine's cheek. "You _are_ beautiful, Christine."

The three ladies stood in comfortable reflection, staring at each other and thanking whatever divine power had put them together once more.

"Madame Giry?" The piqued voice of Maestro Reyer broke their moment.

"Maestro..." Antoinette faced the frail figure of the nervous monsieur, barely remembering the fact that _Hannibal _was to be performed in a full house in a few hours.

"We are supposed to be _rehearsing!" _The poor man exclaimed, quite oblivious to the significant presence of curly haired damsel. "We have only five hours left until the gala tonight and _your_ dancers are…are…_resting, _doing_ nothing!_ I would expect that from someone like La Carlotta b-but _you_ Madame…it's… _unheard of_! Madame you know how utterly necessary it is to resume _immediately._ _"_

_"Oh..._yes. Forgive me Monsieur. Give me a moment."

"Madame I am so sorry I had no idea-"

"Shh, my girl," Antoinette placed a finger on Christine's lips, "Not now, we shall speak soon. Meg take her to my private quarters to rest and then come back to resume practicing."

"Oh no, I couldn't impose!"

"Nonsense! You are staying here." Antoinette turned a critical eye to her daughter, "And be quick about it Meg, I can't have you running around in _that_ costume."

Antoinette placed a kiss on Christine's forehead and then whisked away, composing herself once more into the head of the_ corps de ballet_.

"Come on, Lotte!"

Meg grabbed Christine's wrist and pulled her toward the backstage platforms. They speedily winded their way through the bustling stagehands, scene-shifters, lighting and wardrobe attendants, until they reached a quieter system of hallways leading in every direction. Meg led them through a narrow walkway, toward the far side of the opera house. They slowed their pace, and linked arms as they had done when they were adolescents.

"Oh Lotte I've missed you so." Meg said, breaking the silence.

"And I've missed you," Christine replied, "I thought of you everyday in Marseille. I was so lonely."

Meg sighed heavily.

"Mother wrote so many letters to your father and tried to convince him to bring you back, but we could never locate you. She even contacted the police in Marseille but they did close to nothing for us."

"Unfortunately, the local government is very corrupt. They do nothing for anyone. Unless of course you can expand their purse."

A heavy silence ensued as they walked down the semi-lit corridor, the both of them thinking on how life could have been.

After several moments, Christine softly broke the sad reveries.

"Meg?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course! Anything Lotte."

"What…whatever happened to Erik?"

Meg suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, her breathing becoming ragged and her face drained of all color. Christine held her breath in anticipation as her heart thudded in fear of what the answer might be.

"He…I …" Meg tried to speak but she couldn't help feeling as if the walls were suddenly listening to her every word. Meg closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. "I don't know."

Christine could only swallow the forming lump in her throat and keep the burning tears from spilling over.

"Oh." Was the only thing she trusted herself to say.

Meg squeezed her hand and neither said anything as they walked the few more feet to Antoinette's room. She reached the door and unlocked it with a skeleton key she had hidden in her slave girl's top. Meg led Christine into the simple but elegant room with several pieces of furniture and medium-sized feather mattress.

"Make yourself comfortable, Lotte." Meg said, lighting a lamp. "If you need anything-"

"Oh no," Christine interrupted, "You and _Maman_ have done enough already. I don't how I will ever repay you."

Meg placed a hand on Christine's arm. "You being alive and well is more than enough Lotte."

Meg and Christine hugged, holding each other in a comforting sisterly embrace.

"Get some rest." Meg smiled at her friend, gracefully strode to the door and closed it firmly behind her.

Christine was finally left alone, her exhaustion and anxiety manifesting itself in aches all over her body. All she wanted to do now was sleep. Placing her reticule on a nightstand, she unpinned her hair and slipped out of her traveling dress and corset. She took off her shoes and stockings, messaging her throbbing feet. Deciding to sleep in her undergarments, she blew out the gas lamp and crawled into the bed, groaning as her fatigue melted into the linen sheets.

She closed her eyes feeling safe and protected for the first time in ten years.

"Thank you," Christine whispered to whatever guardian angel or saint was listening.

Before she fell asleep however, her mind's eye portrayed an image of a never-forgotten sight.

A boy with gray-green eyes and a white mask.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7: Gypsy caravan, Spain, 1865_

"_Get up, boy." _

_A blinding light penetrated his troubled sleep and he groaned in protest. The boy yelped as the man kicked him in his side, forcing him to awaken once more to the hell he was living in. The youngster opened his swollen eyes and they painfully adjusted to the bright sun. He took one steadying breath... he gagged. _

_The stench of the cage was debilitating. The humid, unforgiving heat caused the filthy straw under him to reek horridly. Tears stung his eyes and his nostrils and lungs burned as they craved fresh air._

_The huge gypsy threw him a piece of stale bread that the child knew was supposed to last him the whole day…maybe longer. He gulped it down, wincing as it scraped his raw throat. _

_Oh… how he yearned for water…just one sip of the liquid…_

"_C-Could I… h-have some water?" the boy's voice was as soft and gentle as a mouse's squeak._

_The simple request immediately earned him a strike on the face. The man grabbed him by his hair, causing him to cry out. The older male tightened his grip, boring his beady black eyes into his victim's agonized, scar-riddled face._

"_Water?" The gypsy snarled as if the child had asked for gold coins instead of a drink. "You're not satisfied with what I gave you boy?"_

_The boy was hit again. "You want something _more_?"_

"_I-I'm s-sorry-"_

"_Shut up you dog!"_

_The child's stuttering was abruptly silenced as he was cuffed on the mouth… his master flung him into the corner of the cage. The man kicked his ribs and dug his heel into his gut. The gypsy once again grabbed the boy's dark hair and jerked his head up to stare him full in the face. _

"_I will teach you to be ungrateful." He sneered._

_The man pulled out a wickedly curved dagger from his boot and placed the serrated edge onto the right side of the boy's face, digging it into the broken skin. _

_The trembling child gasped. "N-no! Please! I p-promise… I won't ask f-for anything more!"_

_His cries fell on deaf ears. The brawny man stood over the child, his wide, ugly mouth breaking into a terrible grin. The gypsy dragged the knife down the child's gaunt, deformed cheek…the corner of his pale lips…carving into his disfigured face…blood…_

* * *

"NO!"

Erik gasped for air as he shot out up from his bed.

"Stop! Get away from me!"

Erik franticly searched around his cold bedroom waiting for the attacker to continue his torture…only to realize he was in his cavern…alone. Erik clenched his eyes shut, trying to steady his erratic pulse and breathing. His entire body shook and ice-cold sweat trickled down his body in rivulets. He gripped his sheets fiercely, as if they were his lifeline to sanity.

'_Breathe man…just a memory…a horrible memory...' _

Erik swung his long legs over the side of his mattress, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. His exposed face stung from tears shed in his subconscious state of suffering.

"Another nightmare…" Erik whispered, afraid to admit it even to himself.

'_As if you wouldn't be used to them by now…' _A tormenting voice hissed unfeelingly.

Angrily, Erik thrust the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing the tears to cease. He licked his lips, attempting to stop the already flowing tears from entering and polluting his mouth.

He tasted blood.

The metallic taste teased him and he placed a finger on his lip. He winced as he felt the sticky liquid. No doubt he had bitten it in his sleep and now the soft tissue was bleeding unrestrainedly.

Wearily, Erik stood up from the edge of his bed, making his way to his vanity. It only held the simple necessities; a small wooden cabinet, a porcelain wash basin, and a few cotton cloths. He soaked a worn cloth in the basin, wiping away the sweat from his face and neck. He shivered in the chill.

"_Shut up you dog!"_

"_N-no! Please! I p-promise… I won't ask f-for anything more!"_

Erik sighed heavily. The screams in his nightmare continued to haunt him even after he came back to the present.

'_Just make it stop…'_

He opened the cabinet and pulled out a tiny glass partially filled with a white powder.

'_Morphine…'_ The faded label read.

He twirled the bottle in his fingers, contemplating. Erik hadn't ingested a substantial dose in several weeks, and though the withdrawal had been… _uncomfortable_, he had been able to keep from taking the powdered stuff to help him sleep.

'_Don't fool yourself Erik…you know why you can't sleep,' _A sensible voice spoke_. '…Fear…guilt...'_

'_A few spoonfuls won't hurt…' _Another voice, far more sinister murmured, '_No one cares…'_

'_Antoinette…'_

'_She will never know the difference…'_

'_You promised her you would give it up…you have restrained yourself this long…'_

Erik slammed the cabinet shut, silencing the confliction within. He faced the glimmering mirror that was on the cabinet door, frustration building up in his reservoir of deep, passionate emotions.

The scarred portion of Erik's otherwise flawless features stood out starkly in the candle-lit cave that served as his personal bedroom. He glanced at the thin, pale scar that lined his jaw line and curved up to the corner of his lips. His lifelong deformity had earned him countless scars that comprised his entire physical being…but they had scarred him more than physically.

Oh, how he hated his image. It had taunted him every moment of every day he had lived.

Erik's emerald-colored irises became a pale red tint and his ink-black pupils narrowed to sharp dagger points.

'_This face, the infection which poisons my life…will never cease to be my curse…my punishment for the sins I have committed…'_

Erik turned away from his reflection, bile rising in his throat at the sight of his horrid face. Forgetting the morphine, he quickly moved back towards the inner chamber of his room. He didn't need another shattered mirror.

Forcibly, Erik averted his attention to the performance and following gala that evening. He glanced at the small, old clock ticking ominously atop his night table. It was several minutes past seven. _Hannibal_ was to be performed in less than an hour.

Erik sighed heavily, an agonized moan passing through his lips.

"What's the point?" He grumbled to himself, "It's only Carlotta's disgrace blown up to glamorous proportions. She can't sing a decent _note_, much less an entire opera."

Nevertheless, something pulled him to don his dark attire and attend the festivities. Whether it was his love for music or his stubbornness as _Le Fantôme de L'Opéra_ he didn't know.

He decided it was probably both.

Besides, who knew what those idiots above ground were doing. He needed to make sure they didn't make this performance a _complete_ disaster.

Erik heaved open his massive mahogany armoire, swiftly snatching several dark-colored garments. He hurriedly dressed, an unusual excitement surging through him, pushing him to hasten to the surface. Perhaps tonight would be different. Maybe something _pleasant _would happen for a change.

Something told him it didn't hurt to hope for such a thing.

* * *

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine groaned, her deep sleep interrupted by a muffled voice.

"Mademoiselle Daaè? I'm sorry to wake you, but Madame Giry sent me."

'_Madame Giry...'_ Groggy, the young woman hardly comprehended what was happening. _'What is she doing in Marseille...?'_

Another knock resounded throughout the room.

"Please let me in, miss. The opera will begin soon."

'_Opera?...Paris!'_

Christine jumped out of bed, all the previous events of the day rushing upon her like a flood.

"Just a moment!" she called, searching for something to cover herself with. Grabbing a shawl hanging on the bedpost, she padded barefoot to the door. The doorknob refused to budge in her hand.

"Oh, where is that key?"

Her senses still half-asleep, Christine hunted for the skeleton key in a frenzy.

"Where did I put it?"

"Mademoiselle?" The individual on the other side of the door inquired softly.

'_The nightstand…'_

Franticly, she rushed over to where Meg had placed the key next to her reticule.

"Just a moment, I found it! I'll be right- Ow!"

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?"

The harried young woman limped and muttered angrily as she unlocked Antoinette's troublesome door.

Christine was met by a tall girl of about fifteen or so standing next to a very young boy. Both looked at her with confusion and slight apprehension on their faces.

"Err…I ran into a…chair."

"Oh. I'm sorry, miss." The girl stated reservedly, still unsure if this clumsy woman could be in any way connected with the prestigious Madame Giry.

Silence ensued.

Christine was rubbing her shin and her hair was anything but presentable. She knew she must have looked like a madwoman. She cleared her throat, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"I am Christine Daaé. Antoinette sent for me?"

"Antoinette?" The older girl asked, blankly.

"Oh, that's right you wouldn't know her real name," Christine giggled, attempting to convince the two adolescents she was in her right mind. "Madame Giry."

"Oh yes! She wanted us to wake you and give you your things." The girl piped up, the previous awkwardness forgotten.

"My things?" It was Christine's turn to be confused.

"Yes, your luggage, miss. Dietrich has it here."

Christine turned to look at the small boy holding her threadbare carpetbag. She stared at the two incredulously.

"B-but that was at a boarding house miles from here! How did you get it?"

The girl shrugged.

"She sent a stable hand a few hours ago to pick it up. The Madame has her ways I suppose."

"Antoinette knew where I would be staying," Christine murmured. She shook her head, amazed. "That woman never ceases to astonish me."

"The Madame certainly is unique, mademoiselle. Speaking of Madame Giry, Dietrich and I had better go back on stage for final rehearsals. Will you be alright, miss?"

"I think I can manage." Christine said smiling, taking her baggage from the younger child. "Thank you so much, _Dietrich."_

Christine stressed the name, trying the strange sound on her tongue. The child's face spilt in a broad grin, his eyes twinkling to life.

"Handsome name for a handsome little boy. Quite unique." Christine addressed the boy directly.

"It's German." The older girl responded, "Dietrich doesn't speak much."

"I see. A man of few words. I've known a couple of those in my life. And you are…?"

"Elizabeth Lancaster. My mother and I are English. She is a seamstress." the girl rambled proudly.

"A pleasure to meet you both, but I'd suppose Antoinette will have all of our necks if I keep you any longer. I will see you tonight."

"Until tonight then, Mademoiselle Daaé." Elizabeth curtsied politely and took Dietrich by the hand.

Christine called to the girl once more. "My name is Christine. Just Christine. I've think you've called me 'mademoiselle' enough to last a lifetime."

Elizabeth laughed. "Very well then… Christine."

"Christine…" Dietrich echoed softly, glancing shyly at her.

Christine smiled, watching them scurry down the hall toward the other side of the opera house. She walked back into Antoinette's room, shutting the door behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Paris, France, Opera Populaire, 1881

"Gentlemen?"

A stately young man in his mid-twenties smoothly approached the Opera Populaire's new owners. He stood erect at six feet or so and was lavishly dressed. He wore a black suit tailored fitted to his lean figure and his crisp white vest and opera scarf hung around his torso elegantly. An equally expensively dressed woman draped over his arm, completing the impression of an extremely wealthy couple.

The young man was none other than the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.

The entirety of the de Chagny line was by far one of the most affluent and esteemed in Paris, if not of all France. Consequently, anything Raoul de Chagny funded immediately became a hub for rich attendants and supporters. The opera house's reputation as the most valued aspect of the entertainment district already had it at the top of wealthy Parisian's lists. The Vicomte's investment had immediately made the place even more distinguished.

In fact, Raoul was himself was on the top of many a woman's list. He was charming, dashing, and a witty conversationalist. Not to mention devilishly handsome. His golden colored hair hung freely around his neck and shoulders. His light blue eyes constantly sparkled with youthfulness and mischievousness.

Raoul was known to have spent many a night with several different maids of prosperous families and he frequently flaunted a jeweled mademoiselle practically drooling and hanging on his every word and wish. Most were quite willing to give themselves away to make him stay with them but a moment longer.

Raoul, however, never committed to a singular relationship and therefore was always amongst the gossips of the city. His father, Count Philibert de Chagny, had resolved to change his youngest son's frivolous habits to make him a responsible heir to the expansive de Chagny estate. For this reason, the aging count had commissioned him to become the benefactor to the highly regarded Opera Populaire.

Presently, the plan hadn't worked.

"Ah! Monsieur le Vicomte there you are! Glad to see you here so early." Gilles André enthusiastically piped.

"Yes, well I suppose it is wise I did so. The foyer is already filling with patrons." Raoul replied cheerfully.

"No worries, my dear Vicomte," Richard Firmin spoke up now, "We planned ahead and reserved your own private box for you and your lady."

"Countess Raquel Lucia de la Cruz," Raoul introduced, "My good friends Gilles André nd Richard Firmin. Our fine lady is visiting from Madrid. Her father orchestrated a monumental business endeavor with the various mining guilds in northern France. You've read about it in the papers I'm sure."

"Of course!" Richard, always the ladies' man, bent to kiss the gloved hand of Raoul's female companion. "At your service, Countess. Anything to make your evening more comfortable will be done. We have servants on hand to attend you. "

"_Gracias, senors_." The countess purred, eyeing both men with dark, seductive eyes.

"You do plan on bringing the Countess to the gala tonight, Vicomte? You couldn't very well keep her all to yourself." André winked playfully.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Gilles." Raoul grinned, "But if you will excuse us, Raquel and I would like to be seated. Our box gentlemen?"

"Ah yes! Box Five on the Grand Tier, it has a vast view of the entire stage and it's quite private."

"Box Five it is then. Until the gala, gentlemen."

Raoul bowed graciously and escorted the Countess up the marble steps of the Grand Staircase, towards the Grand Tier and Box Five.

* * *

Decades before, the old soldier barracks that had served a regiment of France's large infantry had been rebuilt and expanded into the Opera Populaire. The architects of the original edifice had long since been laid to rest and the old passageways and dungeons were all unknown…unknown except to _him_.

It was one of these paths between the outer and inner walls of the opera house that the Phantom of the Opera noiselessly stalked through. He headed for his favorite seat on the Grand Tier and his impatience and unexplained excitement hadn't yet subsided.

"Box Five it is then…"

Erik skidded to an abrupt halt at the name of the infamous box. He peeked through a wide spy hole in the stone wall to catch a glimpse of _his_ theatre's new managers and a couple ascending the staircase.

"André, you don't suppose the ghost will mind sharing his box do you?" Erik heard Firmin ask, obvious sarcasm lacing his tone.

"I don't think so. Invisible beings don't take up too much space so I'm told."

The two men laughed hysterically at their own jest. Unbeknownst to them, the subject of their amusement was not _nearly_ so jovial.

'_How _dare_ they…' _

Rage boiled in his veins and it hadn't been for the wall, Erik was sure he would have murdered the both of them on the spot.

"Ridiculous! Simply ridiculous!" Richard chuckled as they both sauntered gaily to attend to some final arrangements of the night.

'_Ridiculous, messieurs?' _Erik watched the men bounce away, his Punjab lasso calling to him from its customary spot on his belt. _'We'll see how ridiculous I am when I choke the life out of your worthless carcasses…' _

Erik stood there with his fingers coiling and uncoiling the rope, his mind in a trance-like state of fury. A woman's giggle awakened him out of his deadly stupor and he realized the Grand Foyer had filled with people. He growled, thoroughly irate, wishing he had pursued his victims.

'_Patience…wait until the opera is over…everyone will be gone…the gentlemen will stay late…' _The hissing influence cooed, soothing his wrath in a sickening way.

"Enjoy your night, gentlemen," Erik muttered, "It may be your last."

His temper temporarily pacified, the Phantom whisked back down the dark corridor, his cloak billowing out behind him, and a crafty plan formulating in his mind. The architecture of the theatre would allow him to wander above the stage, the audience on the ground floor, and the private boxes on the Grand Tier. In a word, he could be _everywhere. _A mischievous, lopsided grin replaced Erik's gloomy expression.

Whoever it was that was ignorant enough to brave the renowned Box Five against his command, The Phantom was about to find out.

And they were about to find out that he didn't like to share…


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

The Opera Ghost liked to the think of them as…_convenient distractions._

Granted, they were not convenient when they found their way into his food supply or bedroom, but when the idea cemented itself into his mind, Erik pushed away all prejudice. Erik had spent several days inventing an ingenious trap to snare the little pests and successfully managed to reduce the population around his lair. Tonight, the Phantom sought out one of his rattraps and was wickedly delighted when he had found one captured. The rodent had already expired and the odor of the decomposing corpse applied perfectly to Erik's plan.

He had spent the duration of _Hannibal_'s entire first act and most of the second looking for the perfect candidate for his welcoming present to the couple in Box Five. Considering _his _box had been _stolen _from him, the reaction of a rotting, filthy rat in a private box would surely make his night worth the stupidity of the managers. Not that the Phantom was letting them off that easy…

Being careful to stay in the shadows, the Phantom slinked back to the surface, making his way to the hallway leading from the Grand Staircase to the exclusive boxes on the Grand Tier. The hall was abandoned as most were anxiously anticipating Act Three and the "glorious" aria of La Carlotta.

Quite accustomed to spying in close proximity to his victims, Erik pressed himself to edge of the open doorway of the box. He leaned in to see the gentleman and lady conversing, blissfully unaware of his presence. The Phantom immediately recognized the man's light green eyes, arrogant air, the wily smile…

'_Well if it isn't my old friend...the Vicomte…you haven't changed…insolent fool…'_

Raoul de Chagny had been a frequent visitor to the Opera Populaire even before he became patron. Erik had never approached him and Raoul had never inquired about the "boy in the basement" for years. The Phantom of the Opera hadn't taken interest in the frivolous Vicomte for quite some time…until now of course.

"_¡Madre Mia! ¡Un niño!"_

Erik froze as the countess suddenly spoke.

"What?" Her escort asked dumbly. "Where?"

"There!" She pointed her finger to one the actors on stage, a man with the stature of child, standing alongside Ubaldo Piangi.

"Erm…I do believe that is a man," the blond-haired man said uneasily, "His name is Luigi Bucelli, one of our more..._unique _actors, so I'm told."

Erik almost snorted aloud from the shadows. _'Unique? You mean _different_…'_

"How can he be a grown man with a body of a child?" The woman asked, in English.

"He was born that way my dear," Raoul replied, his voice patronizing. "A fate he could not escape from I'm afraid."

"_¡Cuán triste!"_ The rich lady dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief theatrically, "What a tragic life he must lead…"

"We can only hope that is not the case, Countess."

Erik wanted to vomit. '_The true tragedy is that you're both still alive…' _

The Countess sighed, now giving her attention to her escort, her eyes full of misplaced admiration.

"_Es un hombre tan amable, Raoul_."

The Phantom nearly gagged at the woman's hypocrisy. He opened his contraption and pulled out the rat's carcass by its tail.

'_You both deserve this more than I thought…'_

Erik crept forward and placed the rat next to the lady's foot, his movements uncannily silent and undetected.

"_Le bon débarras, mon cher Vicomte," _Erik whispered as he left, his voice low and threatening. "We _shall _meet again."

* * *

Christine watched Meg and the others perform from backstage, her delight lighting up her face. After Antoinette had sent for her, she had hurriedly dressed in simple gray skirt and white blouse. Christine had insisted on helping with the night's festivities, but the Girys would hear nothing of it.

Consequently, she sat on the ground, her skirt billowing around her, doing her best to keep out of the way of scurrying stagehands and scene-shifters. The damsel swayed to Reyer's perfect beats, her joy of being back in Paris radiating throughout her entire being. Christine hadn't been so happy since she had spent her days underground, laughing, playing, composing, and singing, with a certain deformed musical prodigy…

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine glanced up to see a tall, curly-haired young man holding a white stallion, both staring down at her. Christine jumped, surprised.

"Sorry miss, we didn't mean to frighten you," the teenager whispered, "But Brutus here has a large rump to navigate and I didn't want to run over you."

"Oh, no apology necessary." Christine shifted to her knees and the stable lad aided her to her feet. She came face to muzzle with the muscular draft, his wide eyes looking at her curiously.

"My, he is…enormous."

"That he is." The lad grinned widely, pride beaming through him. He turned back to his horse. "Brutus meet…"

"Christine Daaé."

"Brutus meet Christine Daaé. Christine, this is Brutus, one of the Opera Populaire's prestigious Boulonnais stallions."

Brutus, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, nudged Christine softly. Christine giggled and placed a hand on his large muzzle.

"Nice to meet you too, Brutus."

"Stop flirting, you old chap," the horse's master chastised, "She's too young for you. And what shall I tell Lola when she hears about this?"

"Lola?" Christine asked, quite amused at the young man's seemingly close relationship with the animal.

"Brutus' long time mistress," he replied, "A very moody Camargue mare. Easily provoked, you see."

"I see." Christine chuckled, "Brutus is beautiful." She ran her hands soothingly along his withers and his powerful back.

"Lola thinks so too." The stable hand affectionately rubbed the Boulonnais' neck. "I'm Pierre, by the way."

"A pleasure, Pierre." Christine said, "Do you work with horses often?"

"Yes, in the stables adjoining the opera house. I am one of the few employees who actually _work_, not sing or dance or paint scenery or whatever those snobs think they're doing."

Christine laughed, earning a sharp hiss from someone backstage. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

"Pierre Chancé! Take that overgrown oat-bag and get on stage!" A man hissed from somewhere above them.

Pierre rolled his eyes. " My audience awaits. Come on Brutus, we must go and be the romantic background… and try not to neigh in the middle of Carlotta's aria, its quite rude, not to mention distracting…"

Christine watched the two walk onto stage, the human mumbling, the animal snorting indifferently. Oh how the Populaire had opened her doors to interesting persons...

The lights dimmed and the starry backdrops were lowered. Carlotta's voice soon began to sing the first notes of the concluding aria.

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly, _

_when we've said goodbye…_

_Remember me, once in a while,_

_Please promise me you'll try…_

"No one could forget you if we tried, Signora," Christine mumbled under her breath, "Our bleeding ears won't let us."

"I hope I taught you better than that."

Christine turned around to see Madame Giry in her usual black silk, appearing as regal as ever. Despite, her chastising tone, a playful grin was on her lips.

"Sorry _Maman_. My absence has ruined my manners, I suppose."

"At least it wasn't your sense of musical discernment." Antoinette lovingly placed a hand on Christine's shoulder, fingering the curls that lay there. Christine shook her head, once again facing the prima donna on stage who was belting out the soft notes much too loudly.

"How has she retained her position this long?"

The older woman sighed, "Lack of sufficient talent, _mon cherie._ No replacement can be found to satisfy the…_overseeing_ _administration_."

"You mean the Opera Ghost?" Christine asked in half-jest. Madame Giry abruptly stopped touching the girl's brown locks. The ballet mistress inhaled sharply, not replying. Christine shifted ever so slightly to face the woman, a faint shadow of confusion and worry in her dark eyes.

"_Maman_?"

Antoinette opened her mouth to say something, but a woman's scream suddenly resonated all throughout the opera house. All eyes turned from Carlotta to the couple sitting in the private box on the right side of the building.

"Ahhh!" A dark-haired woman most in high society knew as the Countess de la Cruz, was jumping up and down, screaming hysterically and pointing to something on the ground. Her companion, none other than Raoul de Chagny, stared on in shock.

"_¡Dios salvo mí! ¡Ratas! ¡Ratas!"_

"Raquel calm down!" the Vicomte hissed, rising from his seat. "You're making a scene! It was probably your own gown you stepped on."

The countess promptly slapped him across the face. _"¡El pícaro insensible!"_

The handful of crowd members overhearing the conversation twittered and pointed up at the abashed patron. The countess suddenly noticed that she was being observed and laughed at by the entirety of Paris and gave a cry of horror.

She punctually passed out.

* * *

Erik rarely had anything to laugh about. Tonight, on the other hand, was an exception.

After disposing of his four-legged friend, he had gone to the balconies above the lower levels, watching from a round glass peephole positioned around the grand chandelier's riggings. Countess de la Cruz had found his welcoming present and had announced it quite loudly. Carlotta's face was one of shock and indescribable anger. Maestro Reyer had slapped his conductor's wand on his music stand with severe annoyance forcing Carlotta to finish. After doing so, the Italian had stomped off stage cursing in her native tongue rapidly.

"Brava ladies," Erik snickered, a satisfied chuckle in his throat. "Your performances will not soon be forgotten."

'_But you're not finished yet…'_

"No," Erik agreed with himself audibly, his mood changing quickly and dangerously as it often did. "Those managers have to pay for their incompentance."

Leaving through a door in the wall, he sprinted back down to the lower part of the opera house, towards the Grand Foyer where the gala was about to be held. At least, that was for the "respected" folks of society. The _real_ gala, Erik knew, was a raucous, drunk revelry near the stage.

Slipping up through the rafters, the Phantom waited as the cast members and staff filed in, each with a bottle or two in their hands. He studied every face, most already red and bright with alcohol induced enthusiasm.

'_Perfect…If I catch them drunk, the managers will be easier prey…no one will realize what's happened until the morning…or later…'_

Erik waited patiently, shifting his position among the higher, abandoned wooden platforms. The Punjab lasso was ready to be used at any moment, as soon as André and Firmin showed their faces…

"Where is that girl?"

A familiar voice spoke from directly beneath him. The Phantom turned his sharp green eyes to see Meg looking around anxiously for someone. His sour mood lightened somewhat at the sight of his old friend. She was still in her white ballet attire, her golden hair falling around her shoulders. Meg was certainly a beautiful woman, and even though she was older than most unmarried girls, she was still found attractive by many men. Erik had always, though subconsciously, kept a watchful eye on the younger Giry and her mother. Despite the fact, they hadn't spoken in months Erik held no ill will to them.

He watched her intently, slightly confused as to the urgency of Meg's search. Erik knew she did not make friends easily. She was shy, reserved, and unassuming.

'_Who is she looking for? Meg hasn't had any close friends since Christine…'_

The Phantom's heart nearly stopped. _'Christine…'_

The unexpected thought caught Erik painfully off guard. He hadn't thought of _her_ in only God knew how long. Not that he had forgotten her, quite the opposite. He had thought of her so much that he had convinced himself that she had never existed to help him recover from the trauma of their separation. The sudden weakness of the mental wall he had put up against the memories of his childhood almost made him panic.

Erik took an involuntary deep breath to steady his emotions as an excruciating gut-wrenching sensation froze him. He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking uncontrollably.

'_Not now man…of course she's not looking for Christine…'_

"Lotte?" Meg's clear, pleasant voice rang out loud and clear.

Erik gritted his teeth. _'I can still hear her pet name as if Meg was calling her now…'_

"Christine! There you are! I have been looking all over for you!"

"Stop it now, Erik." The Phantom told himself. He was dreaming. Meg wasn't really...

"I've been right here!"

'_Who's is that voice…why does it sound so familiar…'_

A horrifying sensation seized Erik's core.

"I was watching you from backstage," a damsel spoke from somewhere he could not see, "Oh you were wonderful Meg!"

Erik saw a blur of dress and brown hair collide and envelop the petite Meg Giry. The two girls pulled away from each other for a moment.

"I've never seen you dance so beautifully in my life!" the girl said, her back to the pair of watching eyes in the shadows.

Meg blushed. "Mother still thinks I need to improve."

"She just knows your potential. Besides, _Maman_ was always attempting to keep us humble," the curly-haired girl said, a sound of genuine happiness in her voice, "Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, remember?"

'_What did she say…?'_

Only one person in the world called Madame Giry 'Maman'.

Christine Daaé.

Then harsh realization struck him; the dark brown curly hair…the ability to bring Meg out of her shell…the name Maman…

The girl turned and Erik saw her face for the first time since she had arrived.

Those unmistakably innocent, chocolate brown eyes struck Erik so profoundly he staggered.

"No..."

* * *

A/N: Translations: _"¡Madre Maria! ¡Un niño!" = _My mother! A boy! _"¡Cuán triste!"= _How sad! "_Es un hombre tan amable, Raoul_." =You are such a good man Raoul. _"Le bon débarras, mon cher Vicomte,"=_ Good riddance, my dear Vicomte, _"¡El pícaro insensible"!_ = Insensitive rogue!


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1870_

_Erik was aimlessly wandering the opera house, restless and unwilling to go back to his lair to sleep. Besides it was almost dawn anyway and his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since last night's scant supper._

_The boy lengthened his strides, purposefully heading to the kitchen before those cross cooks woke up… _

"_But Papa! He's my best friend I can't leave him! He doesn't have anyone, but me! Please Papa!"_

"_Quiet Christine! You are NEVER going to see that half-human, gargoyle again!"_

_Erik skidded to a stop. He recognized those voices anywhere and immediately knew he wouldn't be eating anytime soon._

_"MADAME GIRY! MADAME G-"_

_The screams sent Erik into a blind dead run, guided only by the shouts and pleas he heard echoing throughout building. __He ran into the Grand Foyer, escaping from the refuge of shadows. He immediately saw Antoinette and Gustave in a heated confrontation… then he turned and saw Christine on the stone cold ground. _

_Erik rushed over to her, careful not to draw the attention of the adults. _

_"Christine." He whispered worriedly. "Are you alright?"_

"_E-Erik..."_

_Even in the semi-darkness, he could see a red mark across Christine's cheek. The girl covered it with a small palm no doubt attempting to sooth the stinging. _

"_Shhh…move your hand. Let me see your face." Erik said, wanting to see if that cursed man who was her father had damaged her further._

"_B-but it doesn't h-hurt anymore." She croaked. _

_'She still defends that monster of a man…' he thought with disgust._

_Young Erik gently moved Lotte's hand and looked into her deep brown eyes. _

"_I-I'll be f-fine, Erik..." She tried to convince him, but he knew otherwise. _

_He took a breath, "__Christine-"_

"_Go! If he sees you here, P-Papa is going to-"_

_Suddenly, he heard a thick voice shout from behind him._

"_You! Get your filthy hands off my daughter!"_

_Erik whirled around to be viciously grabbed by the shoulders. "YOU!"_

_Erik stared dumbfounded at Gustave Daaé who had begun to shake him violently. He indistinctly heard Christine's and Antoinette's screams of protest…but his focus was solely on the older man. He recognized the uncontrollable anger and mislaid distrust in the man's beady gaze, just like the gypsy's… _

_"You have crossed me for the last time, boy." Gustave growled, his common sense dulled by drink and drug._

_Erik, however, didn't see that the man was truly broken and abused by years of uncomforted suffering…he only saw hate. Erik's vision narrowed as indescribable, uncontainable hatred fiiled him for the man who had caused an innocent girl to suffer abuse countless times. His blood began to boil and adrenalin pumped through his veins._

_"No," He said slowly, deliberately, "It is you who have crossed me…and it ends now."_

_Erik gave a yell of fury and lost all self control. He lashed out as he had never done and hit Gustave with as much force he could muster. Gustave reeled, crashing onto the floor with tremendous force. _

_Erik saw his advantage and knew what he was going to do. He kicked the man in the gut, cutting off a moment's breath and then sat on top of him._

_Daaé cursed, but could not recover enough except to gape at the boy sitting on him and crushing his lungs. Fear gripped his heart. The pale, white mask stood out in the darkness and the eyes peering from the half covered face were devilish and holding unspeakable malice. _

_"You will never hurt Christine again…ever…I will make sure of it…" The boy's hiss tickled Gustave's ears...his lips unmoving and inhuman._

_Erik gave a dry, sinister chuckle. "I am going to kill you, Gustave… and enjoy doing it."_

_The masked boy plunged his hands onto the man's throat and he was determined. He would compress until the man turned blue. Gustave gagged, clawing his attacker's hands._

_He heard a scream. "Erik! NO!"_

_Erik turned to see his best friend on the brink of hysteria as she watched him killing her father. Her brown eyes usually so docile and gentle were beginning to lose their luster, rolling into the back of her head. She was in emotional agony…she wasn't able to bear what she was witnessing…all because of him…_

_"CHRISTINE!"_

_Erik released his grip on the man, suddenly realizing what was happening to Lotte…but it was not his destiny to ever help Christine that night. As he stumbled toward her, Erik was grabbed from behind. _

_Gustave held him by the hair, his scrape with death enraging and empowering him. He ripped off Erik's mask, repulsion and abhorrence flooding him. The predator suddenly became the victim, and he was shown no mercy._

_"It is time to go where you belong, boy. Hell."_

_Then, Gustave Daaé slammed Erik's skull into the marble floor of the Grand Foyer._

* * *

The Phantom collapsed onto the ground, his legs failing him, his absolute shock virtually intolerable. Erik's body shook so hard his teeth rattled, strangling any cry or exclamation of horror from escaping his throat. Frigid sweat crept from every pore on his skin, his heart pounded fiercely, numbing his perception and awareness. His muscles turned to stone, forcing him to stare unblinkingly at the girl.

Erik saw Christine as if in a vision, her movements in delayed motion. Her lips moved sluggishly as she spoke and yet he heard nothing. Vaguely, he saw her through a fog of distorted and chaotic flashes of images of how he once knew her and how she now appeared before him.

_'Christine…Christine…my Christine…'_

Erik gasped, his diaphragm retching for denied air, but he couldn't breathe…his muscles refused. No logical thoughts could process themselves in his mind except the memory of the night they been forced to live apart… his world, his reality, his reason for _living_ had been swept away by a cruel, brisk wind.

But now his reality had changed. Christine had returned. She had escaped from her father… from Marseille, back to Paris, back to _him._

The Phantom could feel his sanity fleeing and without the willpower to fight it, the black abyss of unconsciousness swallowed him.

* * *

"Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, remember?"

Meg laughed outright. "According to Mother, it's also a part of Moses' Commandments."

Christine groaned dramatically.

"What?" Meg asked.

"Envy is another deadly sin!" Christine cried, placing her hand on her forehead as if about to faint. "I envy you Meg Giry. I could never dance with such grace and fluidity no matter how hard I tried. Antoinette will have my head!"

"You're right." Meg giggled, playing into the theatrics, "I'm afraid your life is over."

"Gossip is thoroughly unbecoming." Madame Giry suddenly appeared behind the two, obviously overhearing their conversation.

"_Maman_!" Christine enveloped the woman in a tight squeeze. "We couldn't gossip about you even if we wanted to."

"Lying is also a sin, _mon petite_." Madame Giry said in mock sternness.

Christine frowned. "I don't recall that being one of the Seven."

"It isn't," Meg rolled her eyes, "It's one of Moses'."

"I'm done for." Christine sighed, "God will never let me enter heaven."

"We shall discuss your impious condition at length later," Madame Giry smirked playfully, "I am glad you two are enjoying the evening despite tonight's...distractions. I'm afraid can't say the same for some others."

"Like who? Carlotta?" Meg scoffed. "She was only as awful as usual."

Antoinette ignored her daughter's cynicism and stared at both girls intently, preparing to gauge their reaction. "Raoul de Chagny for one."

Meg's eyes widened to bright ocean-blue orbs. She looked between her mother and Lotte expectantly. Christine inhaled sharply, shifting away eye contact to a distant wall.

"Oh." Christine muttered, obviously uncomfortable with the mention of her estranged cousin.

Meg swallowed hard, unsure of how to react to Christine's negative response.

"I'm sure he's happy you're back in Paris, Lotte." Meg suggested, trying to lighten threatening trouble in the situation.

"Ecstatic." Christine snapped frostily. Meg and Antoinette exchanged worried glances.

"Raoul," the younger Giry started warily, "He doesn't know you're here, does he?"

Christine looked at the two women with something akin to grief in her eyes. It was as if she was begging them not to push the issue any further. Too much pain and unresolved matters had gone between the Daaés and de Chagnys and Christine was not about to reopen those wounds.

"Meg, why don't you try to convince Raoul to be sociable," Madame Giry said softly, "He's being rather sour after his Countess ruined the _tranquility _of the evening."

Meg still appeared worried but she nodded. She squeezed Lotte's hand reassuringly as she walked away gracefully, pushing her way through the growing crowd of lively attendees. Antoinette wrapped an arm around Christine's waist, her hazel eyes soft and understanding.

"Why don't we go to the _chapelle mon cherie? _It will be much more peaceful there."

"Alright, _Maman_."

The Madame led the way, gently coaxing Christine away from the revelry. They entered the quaint chapel, Antoinette immediately heading to the ancient candelabras in the middle of the small room. She knelt, lighting each candle with a match from the box alongside them, the dark alcove illuminating with a soft and eerie light.

"It's just as comforting as I remember it." Christine said in awe as the room lightened up. The ballet mistress smiled sadly.

"It was one of your favorite places to think and collect your thoughts as a child."

Christine sat down next to the older woman. "You used to send me here whenever Father had one of his tantrums."

Antoinette nodded, slowly taking the girl's hands in her own. "Christine," She paused a moment, watching Christine carefully, "Where is Gustave?"

"He's... dead, _Maman_."

The words were spoken with immense sorrow and regret. Antoinette was not shocked. She knew Gustave's self-destructive behavior would get the best of him eventually. She squeezed Christine's hand warmly.

A heavy, torturous silence weighed in the chapel. "How did he die?"

Christine gulped, her eyes widening and skin paling. Antoinette felt the girl's hands grow clammy and sweaty under her clasp.

"He was out late as he always was," Christine started, "I had just arrived from Madame Valérius' back to the two rooms that Father and I rented."

Christine smiled sadly at Antoinette, a hint of happiness shining in her hurt-filled eyes. "Madame Valérius was an old widow who lived near the docks. Her deceased husband had been a traveling merchant who hadn't given her any children. She took it upon herself to educate me and a few other poor youngsters. She kept a watch out for me whenever Father disappeared or been too drunk to work. You would have loved her, _Maman_."

"She did for you what I couldn't," the Madame commented, "I prayed for such a person to guide you."

Christine nodded. The sparkle in her eyes faded as she stared at the walls, reminiscing on when she had last seen her father alive. Antoinette soundlessly waited for her to continue.

"I was getting ready to blow out the candles for the night when I heard a horrible racket outside." Lotte's was voice hardly above a whisper, choked with intense emotion. "I glanced out the window to see several men dragging Papa to the front door. It was raining heavily… he looked awful, _Maman_. I panicked and ran to open the door. The men brought him in…he was so drunk he was unconscious… soaked to the skin..."

Christine took a breath, her entire body shaking, no doubt reliving the feelings of fear that she felt that night.

"They…wanted money…said Father lost a bet that night. They wanted hundreds of francs…francs we didn't have. When I told them so, they threatened to…kill the both of us…they grabbed Father like a ragdoll…"

Christine gagged as a sob tore through her, the image of her bloodied father limp on the ground imprinted in her mind. Immediately, Antoinette collected the distressed young woman in her arms.

"I screamed…they hit me until…I awoke in the morning…to a horrible sound…" Christine paused, stifling a debilitating sob. She continued, plunging through the internal agony. "The house had been raided…they took everything, _Maman_…leaving us for dead. Papa was…gagging..."

Christine wept into Giry's skirt, her grief and suffering inconsolable. Antoinette closed her eyes, her imagination trying to grasp the events of the tragic night.

"He choked _Maman_…he choked to death."

"I'm so sorry, _ma fille." _Antoinette murmured, laying her cheek against Christine's hair, her own tears soaking the curls. Madame Giry needed no further explanation. She knew what Christine had witnessed. She too had known of men overdrinking and falling into a drunken stupor from which they never awoke. Antoinette Giry knew that Gustave Daaé had died of asphyxiation by choking on his own vomit.

"Forgive me, Christine." the Madame cried, "I failed you…I dreamt of the night you left over and over, wishing I could have done something different…something to have changed your father's mind…_"_

The two women cried together, mourning the losses they had experienced the past decade. They remained in one another's arms for long moments, neither emotionally strong enough to break it. Their sobs slowly quieted in the solace of the chapel, peace finally residing inside their souls. Antoinette gently lifted Christine from her lap, cupping the tear-stained face in her soft hands.

"I can't thank the Virgin enough for bringing you back to me." she said, caressing the girl's face as only a mother could. The Madame tenderly brought Christine into a warm embrace.

"I love you, _Maman_." Christine whispered the distress of her heart melting as security replaced her fear.

"And I love you, Christine."

Antoinette reluctantly pulled back, gazing at Christine with an unrestrained look of compassion. She took the girl's hands, lifting her to stand. Giry kissed her forehead, smiling brightly.

"Now we shall begin anew," Antoinette said her voice confident. "Welcome home my dear."

Antoinette led Christine by the hand towards the stone staircase that served as the chapel's only entranceway. "We should return to the surface."

"_Maman_ wait," Christine stopped, preventing the older woman from moving her. Antoinette looked at her expectantly. "I must ask that you…refrain from telling Raoul."

Madame Giry frowned and her mouth set into a firm line. It was obvious she didn't agree with the request, but she didn't protest.

"As you wish. I doubt Meg has said anything about your arrival."

The damsel sighed in relief, squeezing the woman's hand thankfully. "_Merci, _Maman_. _I want to sort out my arrangements before I involve him._"_

"I understand."

Christine nodded. She looked as if she would ask Madame Giry something more, but hesitated, shifting her gaze to her feet nervously.

Antoinette sighed. "But that's not the only reason you don't want speak to him is it?"

_'I can't talk to Raoul until I see…'_

Christine swallowed hard, unsure of how to inquire about the one person she had never forgotten. "I… I was wondering if…you knew…"

She closed her eyes, then opened them, staring straight at Antoinette. In that moment, the ballet mistress knew what those longing, pleading eyes were wanting to know.

"_Maman_-"

"Christine," Giry clutched the girl's hands rapidly, cutting off her inevitable question. "For your sake, I beg you, not to ask me."

Christine gazed at Antoinette, her features a portrait of miserable confusion and anxiety. The expression hit Antoinette at her core.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, _Maman_."

Madame Giry did her best to retain her mask of solemnity, but she could feel overwhelming emotion swelling within her once more.

"Please," Antoinette used all strength to keep her voice from cracking completely, "Remember him as you knew him, my dear. He would have wanted you to honor his memory with all the pleasant moments you shared together."

"_Maman_, what's wrong? What are you trying to tell me?" Christine asked quivering.

Madame Giry released Christine's sweaty palms, turning her back, hiding her inner turmoil that was threatening to boil over.

"Christine, I-I don't know how to tell you this…" Antoinette started, her voice betraying the conflict within her. _'You can't…you mustn't…you cannot fail her...save her…she can't be hurt again…' _

"Madame…I have to know." Christine's achingly sorrowful whisper sent shivers down Antoinette's spine.

Madame Giry faced the girl once more, her composure full of pain and regret. "Christine…"

Antoinette looked directly into those dark brown orbs.

"Erik is dead."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

"No!" Christine gave a cry of horror. "_No!_"

She tottered backwards, losing her sense of balance and crumpled to the stone floor. She looked up Antoinette, searching for a twinkle of jest to be in her hazel eyes. She found none.

Madame Giry didn't move to comfort as she herself was suddenly suffering immeasurable torment.

'_Look what you've done…'_ her conscious bemoaned.

'_I had to…she cannot bear the truth…'_ She reasoned.

Christine wept into her hands, wailing agonizingly. "No…not Erik…he can't be…he can't…"

The Madame couldn't stay in the room any longer, her insides dying at the sound of Christine's grief and anguish. She turned away from the chapel, as cruel as was, to leave the girl alone. She had done what she had to and Christine could not be consoled.

'_Heaven forgive me...some day you will understand...'_ she thought. Antoinette Giry soundlessly cried as she left, hearing the echoes of Christine's brokenness.

"Erik, oh Erik…I'm so sorry…so sorry…"

* * *

'_Erik…wake up, man…'_

'_No…'_

'_Wake up…someone will find you…'_

'_I don't care…'_

'_Lotte could find you…'_

'_No…no…NO! She can't see me like this! She mustn't know I'm still here! She can't find me…she can't…she can't…she can't…'_

"Christine…"

The Phantom of the Opera groaned awake, the hard wooden platform digging into his ribcage. His head and chest pounded, reminding him the consequences of not breathing on a regular basis. He opened his eyes, miserably hoping he was back in his lair waking up after another nightmare. But he smelled the odor of dank wood, and the sweet aroma of brandy and he knew it was all too real.

'_The gala…Christine…'_

Erik bolted to the upright position, half-expecting to have someone standing over him, plotting to turn over him to the authorities. But he was alone… painfully and despondently alone. He grabbed the continuous, sturdy rail of the platform, forcing himself to stand. His legs were no more than sticks of melting butter and he leaned forward, the rail keeping him from collapsing once more.

Involuntarily, he gasped as he looked down at the ground floor. Christine and Meg were gone. Had it all been a horrible coincidence?

The muffled hammer of the clock in the Grand Foyer soon convinced him otherwise. It rang six times, signaling that dawn would soon cast a glow upon the Paris sky. The revelry had died down to a ghostly hush. No shouting, laughing, or clamor of any kind was to be heard. Realization struck Erik. The gala had ended and now the opera house was sleeping in intoxicated serenity. He had missed the entire evening. Erik had lost the battle with consciousness and had fallen prey to Morpheus' pitiless seduction of escape.

Erik felt the cold sweat return, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end and his lungs to constrict. Instinct screamed at him, telling him he was vulnerable and that he needed to run. Not knowing how he did so, Erik convinced his muscles to cooperate. He pumped his long legs furiously, not caring if anyone heard his boots pounding above them as he ran, bursting through and down secret passages.

After what was an eternity, he felt the frigid, barely decipherable breeze of the underground lake. The feeling sent him into on an irrepressible frenzy to reach his bedroom. He fairly flew down the long spiral staircase that led into the dangerous bowels of his home, but not even the fear of his own traps stopped him. By whatever guardian force, Erik found himself untouched by his devices, panting at the edge of his private section of the lake, his black organ standing ominously in the center of his stone abode.

"_Erik? Erik where are you?"_

The Phantom heard a soft, sorrowful voice whisper throughout the caves. His eyes grew wide with fear and he grabbed a curtain hanging from the wall to keep him from fainting once more.

"_Erik…why do you run away?"_

"Go! Don't come to me! Stay back!" he cried, waiting for _her_ to suddenly appear before him. It was only a matter of time before she followed his yells and searched him out.

"_It's Christine …we are friends …"_

"Stay away!" Erik panicked, frightened beyond all reason.

'_Its all in your head, Erik…she's not really here.' _His subconscious hummed, but the voice kept calling him.

"_Trust me…let me help you…"_

"No! You abandoned me!" Erik darted to his room, yanking shut a heavy red curtain to block off the tormenting echoes. He clutched his hair and clenched shut his eyes, attempting to drive away the voice.

"_Angel of Music…come to me…"_

"_NO!_ Stop! _Stop it_!"

Erik burst into the inner chamber, rushing to his vanity. He jerked the cabinet open, hysteria mounting upon him. He grabbed the glass bottle and unscrewed the top, his hands quaking. Erik poured the entire contents down his throat in one motion, gasping and sputtering as the medicinal powder burned his throat and chest. He stumbled backwards as his vision blurred and his equilibrium faded from control.

"Christine…go…Leave me…" he murmured as he fell to the cold floor, the powder numbing the pain and mind.

* * *

It was early morning and the Giry women had thought it best to stay together in the Madame's private quarters. Some less than reputable males had the tendency to continue the gala's festive aurora long into the night and Meg knew it would be safer if she was not in the girl's dormitories. Antoinette and Meg had slept little as they both worried over Lotte's absence. Meg had suggested to fetch her after Raoul had stomped away, but Antoinette had objected, telling her daughter that it was best for Christine to be alone for a while in the solitude of the chapel.

Hours had passed, and Lotte had not been seen by either woman. Meg had fretted whenever she awoke from her irregular, abrupt bursts of sleep, but Antoinette remained silent and solemn sitting by her vanity mirror, a small lamp the only light in the room.

"Mother?" Meg propped up on her elbow, sitting up from the sheets of her mother's bed.

"Hmm?" The Madame replied wordlessly, not bothering to face the girl.

"Christine mentioned something earlier and it made me…uneasy." Young Giry cut right to the point, for both were weary and not wanting to expend much energy.

"Oh? What did she say?"

Meg hesitated slightly, "She asked about Erik."

The room felt unusually small and unprotected, as it always did whenever _he_ was referred to.

"And what did you say, my dear?" The Madame asked quietly.

"I told her I didn't know." Meg sighed. "I felt as if I betrayed her."

"How so?" Antoinette turned on her stool a bit to face Meg now, her composure still unreadable and stern.

Meg paused, her fair brow wrinkled in thought. "Well, I don't know much about Erik's doings nowadays… aside from his occupation as The Phantom of course. So what I said was partly true… but I do know _something,_ I suppose. At least more than Lotte does, anyway. The inquiry shocked me, Mother. I didn't know how to respond really."

Madame Giry nodded in understanding. "You did very well, my dear. You fared better than I did I'm afraid."

"What do you mean, Mother?"

Meg was met with silence. She noticed that her mother suddenly appeared very tired and her reflection in the mirror appeared haggard and careworn. Meg slipped out from beneath the covers, stepping up behind Antoinette and placed a hand on her shoulder. Antoinette immediately covered it with her own sighing deeply.

"Christine asked me the same thing, Meg. In the chapel."

Antoinette again turned to look up at her daughter, her gaze tearful and pleading. "I couldn't bear to tell her the truth."

Meg held her breath, worried over her mother's words.

"I told her that Erik is no longer…among the living."

"W-what?" Meg stuttered shocked.

Madame Giry stood up slowly, taking Meg's hands in hers as she had done earlier with Christine.

"B-but Erik is alive. I-I mean he's here…with us…under the opera house." Meg searched in her mother's eyes for the logic behind her mother's previous statement.

Antoinette put a gentle palm on Meg's cheek, her features regretful. "That man that lives in perpetual darkness and relishes in others' pain and terror is _not_ Erik, _mon cherie_. That is a ghost of the person he once was…a shade of the night haunted by his own fear."

"But Christine doesn't know that. In her mind, Erik is still the boy she learned to love with all her innocence and compassion. The Phantom may be another mask Erik hides behind, but he is still Erik, Mother." Meg argued, though not unkindly.

"Erik died the day Christine left," Giry bristled ever so slightly, releasing Meg from her grasp. Her voice became more assertive and confident. "This game he plays as the Opera Ghost does not allow the memories of the past to infiltrate his mind."

"But it's Christine!" Meg pleaded, confused and angry at her mother's uncharacteristic deception. "Even Erik in all his wrong doings would surely realize how important she was to his life."

Antoinette did not reply. Meg breathlessly returned to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Not a word was spoken for several moments. The clock in the Grand Foyer banged the sixth hour and the Madame stiffened considerably.

"Meg," Antoinette's tone left no room for dispute, "To Christine, Erik is dead. For all she can recall, Gustave could have killed him that night."

Both immediately remembered when Erik had suffered a severe head injury at Gustave's hands. Erik had nearly lost his life and Christine had never known if he had recovered, but obviously she assumed so.

Antoinette faced Meg now, her eyes hard, "I do not want her to know otherwise, Marguerite Giry."

Meg scowled her disapproval visibly, in one of the rare times she ever rivaled her mother's wishes. She crawled back underneath the blankets, her back to Antoinette and her face towards the wall.

Madame Giry sighed. "You will understand in time, my dear."

Meg heard the key scratch the keyhole and the Madame bustled out the door, leaving her child alone to her thoughts.

* * *

Lotte fluttered open her eyes, then sat up quickly, unsure of where she was. She gazed around, her eyes bloodshot and her face blotchy. She had cried herself to an exhausted, grief-induced slumber. An undercurrent of woe passed through her and her emotions threatened to smother her once more. She managed to stifle it down, however, and staggered to her feet.

"_Gustave!"_

"_Papa! No don't hurt him!"_

Echoes cried throughout the _chapelle, _leading Christine into a trance-like state. She left the room, passing through the corridors silently.

"_Erik, stop now!"_

"_Erik! NO!"_

"_CHRISTINE!"_

Memoriess played over and over again in her mind, the masked boy calling out her name, then suddenly bloodied and unmoving. All she could recall was Antoinette's screams mixed with her own. Her next memory was awakening in a stagecoach with her hung-over father. She was cold, hurting, and far from home… away from her music and away from Erik. She had never known if Erik had recovered. In her mind, he must of. He was as stubborn as a mule and as tough as nails…Erik _had_ to have survived her father's wrath.

'_But he didn't…he was killed…at your father's hands…and you did nothing to stop him…' _A voice hissed in her head.

"Oh, Erik." Christine moaned to herself, anguish threatening to tear out her soul from her body. The name reverberated around the dark hall. She glanced at the stone walls, numbly wondering if they found pleasure in echoing the dead's names to hurting loved ones.

'_Or maybe it's his ghost…' _

If she hadn't been so sorrowful, Christine would have snickered in amusement.

'_Erik always said the opera house held secrets…and this place seems so odd now…like it's…haunted...'_

Would it be haunted now that a murder of an innocent child had taken place?

Christine choked on a sob. She ran down the winding halls blindly, tears and lunacy squeezing their icy grip tighter and tighter. She tripped on her skirt and fell, crashing onto the stone floor in a heap.

"Erik…my Angel." She cried.

'_Angel…'_ a soothing sound whispered from a deep part of her soul. Unexpectedly, Christine felt a bit of comfort and it caused her to look up. She soon realized she was only steps away from the Grand Foyer…where she had last seen him…

She forced herself to her feet and walked ever so slowly onto the floor of marble. Moonlight trickled into the expansive area, glistening on the statues and reflecting off the chandelier. Her shoes clicked quietly as she took in the dreamy scene, remembering her past life. She stared at the front doors, the marble ground, and the staircases leading up and throughout the opera house.

"_Please…remember him as you knew him, my dear. He would have wanted you to honor his memory with all the pleasant moments you shared together." _

Christine ascended the center staircase slowly then she stopped in mid-stride, a sudden idea springing in her mind.

'_Honor his memory…'_ she mused.

Christine thought for a moment, wondering if she could be put at peace with Erik's death.

'_Maybe I could sing for him one last time…'_

She took a deep breath, not sure of what she was about to do. Whispering, she sang her heart…

_You were once_

_My one companion_

_You were all that mattered…_

_You were once a friend and brother—_

_Then my world was shattered…_

_Wishing you were somehow here again_

_Wishing you were somehow near…_

_Sometimes it seems if I just dream_

_Somehow you would be here_

_Wishing I could hear your voice again_

_Knowing that I never will… _

She held back another sob and continued to go up the marble steps. Her voice amplified as her emotions continued to swell within her.

_Too many years fighting back tears_

_Why can't the past just die?_

_Wishing you were somehow here again_

_Knowing we must say goodbye_

_Try to forgive_

_Teach me to live_

_Give me the strength to try_

Christine reached the top, standing at the round stage of smooth stone that lay in between the three staircases. Courage filled her being unexpectedly and she felt calmer. She sang softer, at last bringing closure…

_No more memories_

_No more silent tears_

_No more gazing across the wasted years_

_Help me say goodbye…_

_Help me say goodbye…_

She turned and looked out across the foyer remembering that night so long ago.

"Goodbye…" she murmured.

Christine sighed and knelt, the emotional weight still bearing upon her heavily. She placed both hands over her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Erik," She said softly, "Forgive me…if only I could change the past…if only…"

A groan and creak suddenly resounded from underneath the girl. Christine looked down to see the solid marble floor crack open. Before she could even scream, she fell into darkness as the ground swallowed her.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

Christine Daaé fell into the dark pit and landed hard. She yelped as her feet hit the ground and her ankle bent awkwardly under her body. Immediately she begun to rub her right ankle, wincing.

"Perfect." Christine muttered, "Haven't even been back home a full day and you are already getting into trouble Lotte. Antoinette will never let here me hear the end of this."

As she spoke, moonlight trickled in through an unseen opening. She looked around her, the soft light showing her the area in which she had fallen.

The walls had been bolstered with tall, narrow mirrors that had been arranged in an odd geometrical fashion. The glasses weren't completely flat against the walls, however, and they poked out in random places as if they had shifted then suddenly stopped. She quickly guessed that she had fallen somewhere under the opera house but she did not recognize the surroundings.

"Where am I?" She whispered half to herself, half to the walls reflecting her form in the semi-lit space.

A chilly draft blew from cracks in the walls and a foreboding sensation of danger crept upon her. The eeriness of it caused Christine to shiver unwillingly. Immediately, as if in unspoken response, she heard a burdened creak and the mirrors began to ease into motion. Christine gasped, sitting upright, but unable to stand as her ankle throbbed more and more painfully. The fastened mirrors began to spin and whirl in a counter-clockwise motion, accelerating to a seemingly uncontrolled speed.

Christine convinced herself not to panic. _'It's probably an old prop room…I'm sure there's a way out…'_

She watched the glasses continue to reel around her and became dizzy. An odd red gleam, shined from above her and instantly Christine felt warmth filter stealthy into the room. The uncomfortable tingle of heat soon became stifling and Christine blinked, trying re-focus. She could see herself in various reflections on the walls and her own frightened features stared back at her, sending further dread into her being.

"What in the name of heaven is all this?" she murmured, still at a loss. As if things couldn't get any stranger, another prominent noise resounded and a looped rope fell inches from her face.

"Ah!"

Her shriek echoed back into her ears, and she instinctively jerked back. The rope swayed back and forth harmlessly in front of her. Despite her relative motionless state, however, her vertigo continued to worsen. The heat had intensified and the rope's pendulum motion caused vague hypnosis. The looped rope continued to hang and Lotte suddenly wondered what it was for.

The loop was wide and slack but it appeared it could be tightened by tugging a loose end and in turn, pulling the coiled part around the loop to make it smaller.

'_What an odd apparatus…it appears very strong and durable…I wonder where it's hanging from…'_

Young Daaé yanked on the rope but it remained fastened to the ceiling. To what exactly, she couldn't tell. Something very strange was at work behind the odd mechanism. The mirrors reflected the red light's glow directly onto her face and Christine began to sweat. She swallowed back the fear that had begun to well up in her throat.

'_I have to get out of here…'_

Christine bit her bottom lip, shifting her weight to bring her legs out from under her and stand. Her ankle instantaneously resisted, pounding pain up through her shin with every heartbeat. She bore down however and grabbed the rope above the loop and around the tight coil. The pain around her foot was sharp but she managed to pull herself up, distributing pressure on her left leg.

Still grasping the rope for support, she watched in horror as the room turned from dank and dark to a bloody red hue. Sweat poured from every pore and her corset began to stick to her ribs. Her mouth ran dry and her pulse thudded in her ears.

Then it struck her. Christine realized this was not an ordinary prop room. Who or what had orchestrated the room didn't matter to her at the moment. The Opera Populaire had once in ages past been a prison, trapping and holding horrible secrets. The old opera house's horror stories flooded upon her and she knew there was no escape.

She screamed. "Help! Help me!"

Her voice already sounded harsh and hoarse in her ears, but she yelled louder.

"I'm trapped!"

The mirrors, if possible, began to spin faster and hissed as they whizzed past, tormenting their captive. Ignoring her injury, she dropped to the stone ground and crawled to the closest wall. She hit them with her fists, disregarding the danger of the sharp-edged glasses.

"Let me out! Let me _out!"_

Sweat poured into her eyes and burned them, causing tears to form and swell. "Help! _Aide! Aide!"_

'_You're stuck here Lotte…welcome to your death…' _mocked the imaginary demons watching her from every corner.

She cried, collapsing to the ground once more. The heat was threatening to drive her mad and she was getting thirsty… thirsty…_water_. She would do anything to get out…anything.

Christine then knew what the strange rope was for and why it was fastened so tightly above her.

'_Hangman's noose…your only mode of escaping…before it gets any worse…'_

"God save me…"

* * *

Madame Antoinette Colette de Beaumont Giry had never been an overly pious woman, but at this moment she was praying to every holy figure she could think of.

It was an hour or so past noon-Antoinette had long since forgotten the time-and Christine Daaé was no where to be found. No one had even _seen_ her. At first, this had not worried Giry as many opera house attendees were barely able to walk from their overzealous merrymaking, much less recognize a young woman who had just arrived the afternoon before. But the time ticked by and not even the kind managers-only _mildly_ sober-but nevertheless somewhat attentive had seen the curly-headed damsel.

The chapel had long been abandoned and Antoinette had looked in _every_ place imaginable. She stormed down the decorated hall leading to and from all the offices of the business-oriented staff. The staff members had been unhelpful and she was running out of options.

"_Pour l'amour de dieu_ where is that girl?" she muttered under her breath.

'_Have you truly looked everywhere?' _A disquieting hum buzzed in her mind,_ 'What about underneath…'_

"_Ridicule!" _she replied to herself, "_He_ couldn't have taken her..."

'_You think so, Madame?'_ her thoughts taunted.

"_Erik n'est pas stupide," _she frowned, becoming more and more engrossed with her own silent musings, "He wouldn't suddenly appear after a decade and-"

The woman's self-directed tirade abruptly ended as she bumped into something firm.

"Oof!" she said, quite unsophisticatedly.

"Oh! Forgive me!" A pleasant male voice cried, instinctively holding Antoinette's arms to keep her from falling on her rear. "I did not see you there…Madame Giry?"

The ballet mistress glanced up to see the bright blue-green eyes of Raoul de Chagny.

"Vicomte? What are you doing here? " She asked, surprised sat seeing him at the Opera Populaire so soon after the gala.

"I came to see you actually. I wanted to apologize for my…behavior last night. I was rude and for that I am very sorry, Madame." Raoul chuckled dryly. "Please forgive my ungentlemanly words and such. The Countess wasn't as interested in me after the _incident._ My pride suffered I'm afraid._"_

The Madame looked up at him incredulously. '_Well this unexpected…' _She pulled herself out of Raoul's arms and smoothed her dress, trying to get her scattered thoughts in order.

"Erm…of course Raoul. It's understandable you were upset. It was your first night as patron."

"True. But I should have shown you of all people a little more courtesy, Madame. I've known you since I was a child." He bent down and kissed Antoinette's hand politely. "I assure you I will focus on bettering myself in the future."

Madame Giry couldn't help but smirk a gentle grin. Raoul de Chagny was so…charming. She couldn't refuse him even if she actually cared about what happened the night before… which in fact she didn't, since the only thing on her mind at the moment was Christine.

"_Cela absurde!_ You have too much to think about besides apologizing to an old ballet mistress. _Bien sûr_ _vous êtes pardonné."_

"_Merci, Madame," _Raoul sighed in relief, bowing once more to Giry, "And you are not old. You are an angel."

"_Bêtise," _Antoinette blushed modestly, "I am at your service. It is splendid that you have returned to your old playground, Vicomte."

"_Oui,_ indeed. I have many fond memories of the old building." A flicker of sadness seem to pass before the man's young face as if he remembered something that troubled him. Antoinette noticed but said nothing.

Raoul shook himself out of his reverie quickly and turned back to the woman. "Well, Madame I do believe I feel significantly more relieved to know that you do not hold my immaturity against me. Dare I push my good fortune and request that I may accompany you to your destination?"

The ballet mistress hesitated. _'If only you could, my dear…'_

"That's very kind of you Raoul but-"

"Mother! _Bénir le ciel au-dessus vous êtes bien!_" A blonde-headed female suddenly came bounding up from the hall behind de Chagny. "I have been looking all over for you."

'_Oh l'humanité…could this day get any worse for me…' _Antoinette thought, _'Meg of all times why now?'_

"Meg!" Raoul exclaimed genuinely surprised and he turned to smile brightly at the young woman. "Both beautiful Giry women with me at the same time? My fortune is better than I previously thought."

Marguerite Giry, after sharing the same surprise as Raoul, bobbed a curtsy. "_Monsieur le Vicomte…_ I wasn't expecting you here."

"You will just have bear my presence I am afraid." de Chagny teased bending over in a bow and kissing Meg's hand as he had done with her mother. "And call me Raoul, if you please. We are old friends are we not?"

"Yes, I'd like to think so." Meg said smiling prettily. She hardly noticed her mother there for a fleetingly second looking into those turquoise tinted eyes…

Antoinette Giry was too shocked to move. Here she was looking for Christine, who in less than twenty-four hours had managed to disappear into thin air after she had partially lied about Erik. Now, her daughter and _the Vicomte_ were looking into each other eyes in a fashion that made her uncomfortable. Sure, they had had a childish fancy for one another when they were young but it was a _childish_ attraction…was it not?

The Madame coughed a bit to grasp hold of the odd circumstance she found herself in. Raoul's and Meg's loced gaze was broken and Meg turned anxious and confused once more. Before she could voice her concern however, Raoul spoke.

"Now, what is this I hear about thanking heaven your mother is fine? Is there something I should be worried about?"

"I…well…um…" Meg stumbled, looking at her mother for assistance in not revealing Christine. Antoinette just gave slight shake of her head in response. "I hadn't seen her and was just…curious as to her well being. You can never be too protective of your parents, Raoul." Meg rambled.

The Vicomte furrowed his brow not understanding the awkwardness between the two women.

"Indeed." He said not convinced.

Antoinette tried to salvage the situation before it turned a foul corner. "Everything's fine. I think we are just a little tired from last night's festivities."

The older Giry moved as unobtrusively as possible past Raoul and slipped her arm through Meg's. "We had better tend to the _corps de ballet_ before it gets too late. Shall we see you during _Il Muto_ tomorrow evening?"

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it if the very demons of Hades tried to stop me." Raoul smiled softly, though more careful and watchful of the ladies' reactions. He bowed again.

"_Au revoir,_ Madame…mademoiselle."

"_Au revoir." _the Giry's replied in unison.

When Raoul was out of earshot, Meg tugged on her mother's arm causing them both to stop abruptly.

"Mother, what is going on? Where is-"

"I don't know." Antoinette curtly replied.

Meg's pupils widened. "But I thought you said she was in the chapel!"

"She was until this morning. I was looking for her when I ran into the Vicomte. She's no where to be found, Meg." Madame Giry sighed tiredly; worry becoming visible as her brow wrinkled.

"You don't think-"

"No." Madame said a bit too harshly cutting off the girl. "He couldn't have. Not so soon."

A pregnant pause filled the air. Tension was building by the moment and Meg hesitated before she spoke, her breath becoming short. "And if he has?"

Antoinette drew in a ragged breath. Her response was barely audible.

"Then may God forgive me."

* * *

Erik strained to open his eyes. He saw shadows dancing on the rock ceiling above him as the many candles flickered in his abode. The cold, stone ground dug into his back and Erik shivered, his body strained and exhausted. A moan reached his ears that sounded both pathetic and pitiful. His head pounded and his throat felt raw and swollen. He swallowed and moaned again. Painfully slow, he rolled on his side, forcing himself to get in the upright position.

"Uh…"

He groaned and his eyesight blurred before him as he managed to sit up. Every part of him was either numb or screaming in pain. He couldn't feel his legs, his arms felt as if they were tied down, his head was swimming and his throat and stomach felt odd…

Before he knew was happening, Erik felt a foully bitter taste fly from his mouth and the contents of his stomach emptied onto the ground next to him. He cursed when he regained his breath and scooted away from the inwardly expelled substances.

'_Should of thought twice before dumping morphine down your throat…' _a scolding voice whispered _'Maybe now you'll learn to control your emotions…'_

Erik managed to spit and he willed himself to stagger to his feet. The world was still spinning uncomfortably, but he was no longer entirely disconcerted. He stumbled to his nightstand and sipped a half-drunk glass of lukewarm water. It cleared his head a bit and Erik felt a bit more stable. His mask hung haphazardly on his face and he removed it, knowing it was probably ruined.

A putrid smell reached his nose however and he grumbled as he thought about the pile of previously contained fluids on the floor. His head still hurt but he cleaned up the stuff rather quickly for a man who had just been indisposed a few moments before.

Erik abruptly stripped of his cloak, dress jacket, vest, and shirt, all of which he had left on during his mad dash to the medicine cabinet. None of the articles were in the least bit tainted, amazingly, and his trousers were just dusty from lying on the floor. Setting these things to the side, he chose to revive himself in the freezing water of the lake.

Afterwards, he dried and put on a fresh, crisp, undershirt along with a simple pair of brown pants. Thus refreshed, he strode behind his back organ to retrieve a spare white mask molded and attached to a similar mold of his scarred face.

Sitting down on his bench, he held the white half-mask for a moment staring blankly at his hands. His mind however was not on the mask. He was not thinking about the white, pale, bloodless object before him but the sight of a vivacious child. She had plump red cheeks and an infectious smile. Her brown curls were unruly and falling into her wide, innocent eyes…

* * *

_1871_

"_Erik! Erik!" _

_A girl's voice called to him, a penetrating noise into his peaceful world of sleep. _

"_Erik wake up!"_

_A groan escaped his lips as his senses finally awakened to the fact that someone was taking away his rest._

"_I heard that! I know you're awake…" The girl taunted from behind the heavy curtain that separated his bedroom from the rest of the lair._

"_Five more minutes…" Erik mumbled._

"_No! I'm not falling for that trick again!" _

_Erik was sure her voice had raised several octaves. He stuffed his pillow over his ears._

"_Go away Christine…"_

"_Erik," He could almost see the nine year old put her hands on her hips in annoyance. "Maman is waiting for us and if we don't hurry we'll never get to go!"_

"_Oh well!" Erik shouted back. "It's not like you haven't been to market day before!"_

"_Why you rude, temperamental, thoughtless, insensitive…" The little maid paused searching for the right derogatory term, "… rogue!"_

_Erik rolled his eyes from under his fortress of blankets and pillows. _

'_She's been studying that stupid thesaurus again...'_

"_Nice try Christine. I am not getting up."_

_The young teen heard the girl stamp her foot angrily._

"_If you don't get up right now I'll…I'll…."_

"_You'll do what?" Erik mocked._

"_I'll…paint your mask… pink!"_

_Erik burst out laughing. "And how do you suppose you are going to do that? My mask is right here on my nightstand…"_

_He peeked out from under his pillows to glance at where he had put his mask the night before, on his nightstand…then he remembered he had left it… out _there.

"_Oh no…Christine…." _

"_Oh yes…" Christine snickered from the other side of his curtain. "Your mask is perfect for-"_

_Erik couldn't hear the rest of her sentence. He had ripped off his sheets and vaulted out of bed._

"_Christine!"_

_Erik yanked open his privacy curtain. He stood menacingly over Christine, his right hand covering his exposed face and his left hand held out demandingly. Christine smirked, an evil glint in her eyes. She toyed with Erik's plaster mask in her hands, transferring it from one palm to another. Erik watched it hang precariously in Christine's possession, despair filling him as he imagined it falling and cracking into unfixable pieces. It had taken so long to make it fit perfectly…_

"_Give it back!" he shouted._

"_After you get dressed!" Christine spat back, pointing to his bare chest. Erik had rushed so fast out of his room he hadn't bothered to pull a shirt on. _

"_I am NOT going with you!" His temper was rising, and his patience wearing thin. "Give me my mask!"_

"_No!" Christine's stubbornness was aggravating him to no end. "You promised!"_

"_I CHANGED MY MIND!" Erik's voice vibrated throughout the underground causing Christine to jump back instinctively…he watched the mask slip from her fingers…_

* * *

Erik shook out of his memory with a strange feeling stealing over him. It was…fondness. Yes, Erik in the consciousness of his past emotions still felt a close, friendly bond. A rueful, humorless smirk crept into the corners of his mouth. How easily he had slipped into remembering _her _when only hours before he had collapsed in shock.

But why? Why did she matter to him anymore? Why did he feel the sudden urge to see her again?_'_

_'I was nothing to her…just a childhood playmate….deformed and moody…with only the caves as a refuge…Why would she remember me?'_

"ERIK!"

The Phantom nearly toppled off his organ bench. Terror struck him with full force. Someone was calling, no, screaming his name…

"ERIK! ERIK!"

The sound was shrieking through the catacombs, echoing hauntingly in every dark corner. It suddenly registered that it was a woman's voice….and it was very, very _real._ This was not a cruel trick instigated by his mind.

_"ERIK!"_

The voice screeched in horrific desperation. Erik immediately jumped to his feet and scrambled into his gondola in a blur of flesh and clothing. He snatched his pole and rowed with vehement enthusiasm.

The gate lifted before him in a pre-set mode of mechanical engineering and Erik sailed across the lake with unnatural speed.

"NO! _Pitié! Pitié!"_

He wanted to shout that he was coming, to hang on, but the words stuck to his vocal chords. Despite his furious pace the edge of the lake was still a distance away and the gondola refused to go any faster.

"_Je ne veux pas mourir! Je ne veux pas mourir!"_

The words struck Erik's core with horrendous fear and he froze…if this voice's person was in danger….

'_The traps…'_

The Phantom of the Opera lost all sense of dignity and leaped from the boat to the water. The frigid water hardly came up to his chest and he ducked his head under the surface without second thought.

The plunge was sudden and ruthless, and the water broke before his arm strokes in fearful submission. The hard foundation of stone finally slammed into Erik's bare feet. He scrambled onto the cold, smooth bank gasping.

Erik was soaked to the skin. Brown water dripped off of his body in rivulets and he had begun to shiver as the constant wind blew through mercilessly. He didn't notice. He stood rigid, dread filling his soul as he was at a loss. The passage directly in front of him ended a few yards from the lake with a choice of right or left. Which trap were the pleas coming from?

The voice hadn't screamed since he fled the boat. Then, a strangled cry reverberated into his sensitive eardrums.

'_Left…'_

He bounded into that hall, the various possible traps going through his mind. But instinct led him forward…under the Grand Foyer…to the torture chamber of mirrors…

The outside of the edifice was shadowed in a cloak of evil gloom and fissures in the structure revealed a ghastly red light. A fierce, hot wind blew into Erik's face. He heard nothing now except the revolving mirrors buzz as they spun. There was without a doubt someone in the small room.

Erik pushed the surface, the mechanism folding inwards under his touch. The mirrors moaned as they slowed and the red light faded.

The Phantom of the Opera was no longer breathing. His green eyes focused on a heap of white and gray cloth and colorless skin. The pile was shaking uncontrollably and inhuman sounds came from it.

Erik realized the noises were moans and sobs. He couldn't move towards the person. After his frantic rush, his muscles were unmoving. In dismay, Erik watched as the body shifted.

It lifted its head… chocolate curls framing a pale face. Wide, dull-shaded irises of indescribable fear locked with his bright, emerald ones.

Her lifeless lips moved. "Erik…"

Erik's heart stopped and his voice cracked in terrified shock. "Christine?"

* * *

A/N: Translations: _Aide!= Help!,__ Pour l'amour de Dieu=For the love of God,__ Ridicule!=Ridiculous!, Erik n'est pas stupide=Erik is not stupid, Cela absurde!=That's absurd, Bien sûr_ _vous êtes pardonné.=Of course you are forgiven, Merci=Thank you, Bêtise=nonsense, Bénir le ciel au-dessus vous êtes bien!_=Thank heaven above you are safe, _Oui=Yes, Oh l'humanité=Oh the humanity, Au revoir=Goodbye, Pitié!=Mercy, Je ne veux pas mourir!=I don't want to die!_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

"Christine?"

He fell to his knees and scrambled to her. Erik gently pushed her on her back and gasped as the curls slid away from her face. It was indeed Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé. Her breathing was unsteady and she stared up unseeingly.

His hands shaking, Erik placed his hand on her forehead. It was sickeningly warm to the touch. Her blouse stuck to her neck and throat and her skin was visible underneath. She flinched, causing Erik to jerk back his hand. Christine cried out suddenly.

"Don't leave me here! I'm sorry!"

The damsel shot up once more to the upright position bringing her face inches from Erik's, but she didn't seem to see him. The primary signs of heatstroke assailed Erik's educated psyche. Christine had been in the condemned chamber for who knew how long and was beginning to suffer the effects. He could only imagine the physical and mental strain and disturbing hallucinations she was being plagued by.

"I'm sorry!" She screamed, "I didn't want to go! _I didn't want to go!"_

"Christine!" The Phantom instinctively grabbed her arms to steady her.

"No! No! Don't leave me!"

"Christine! Look at me!" Erik shouted. Daaé's eyes were still roving, refusing to focus on the man in front of her.

"Look at me!_" _

Christine gasped and whimpered as Erik shook her, physically demanding her to pay attention.

"_Look at me!"_

Erik suddenly felt Christine become very limp under his hands and her eyes settled on his face, but not nearly as focused as he would have liked.

"Erik…" Christine's voice was hoarse and weak. She was losing strength, dehydration overpowering her survival instinct.

"I'm here…I'm here…" Erik murmured, not caring whether or not she was sane enough to comprehend that he was really in front of her. He pulled her close to him allowing Christine to press her clammy forehead to his shoulder. He could feel her body trembling beneath him. "Just stay with me… I'll get you out of here."

Erik slid his arm under her knees and brought her entire form into his arms in one smooth motion. He stood up and strode out of the torture chamber.

When Erik reached the lake, his gondola was still floating where he had left it after he had jumped. He plunged into the frigid water, gasping as it hit him. Clenching his teeth in determination, he lifted Lotte's head above water and half-walked, half-swam, towards the black boat. Using all his considerable strength, he hoisted her up above his shoulders into the shallow-bottomed gondola. He pulled himself in after her and snatched the rowing rod that was drifting alongside.

As Erik rowed, Christine remained motionless in the bottom of the gondola, its dark color making her skin appear even more chalky and white. The prow of the boat finally slammed into the stone island and the Phantom lifted Christine into his arms once more. He practically ran through an overhanging curtain into a barely lit room and set her down in the large Swan divan.

Erik hastily grabbed a match and set aflame the rest of the candles in the alcove. Then he bolted out of the room and filled a wooden bowl with clear, cold water.

He knelt beside the oversized divan and pressed the bowl to her colorless lips.

"Drink this, Christine."

Responding to the pressure on her mouth, Christine's lips parted and the refreshing liquid trickled in and down her throat. After a few painful swallows, Christine moaned and turned her head, her eyes still shut and roving beneath their lids in delirium.

Once more, Erik placed his hand her forehead and the heat seared his palm. Grabbing his shirt at the collar, he ripped it and soaked the wad of cloth into the remaining water. He took it and laid it on her forehead, then rubbed down it her neck in an attempt to cool her.

"Erik…Papa…no…don't…Papa, you'll…hurt him…" Christine muttered, her eyes closed and head lolling.

She shivered spastically and sweat flowed like rivers down her skin. Her hands shook and clasped the soft velvet beneath her, the hideous images and memories attacking her sanity. The symptoms of heatstroke refused to recede and her clothing stuck to her skin and trapped the sweat and warmth on her body.

"Don't take me Papa…let me stay…I can't…leave..."

"Stay with me Christine," Erik found himself pleading, "Please…"

* * *

Antoinette sucked in her breath as the underground lake's chill breeze blasted her. As soon as she pushed open the sliding mirror, the candle in her hand flickered, reflecting how her hopes of shielding Christine were abruptly fading.

'_Did you honestly think you could hide her? He knows everything…' _

Hours had passed in futile searching and the burden of her lie began to weigh heavily. Soon the guilt was so severe, the Madame was positively certain that _he_ knew that _she_ was here. That only left one option as to where and why Lotte had disappeared.

The seasoned ballet mistress shuddered. If Christine had in fact crossed paths with him…she could only hope she could bear what awaited her below the opera house.

* * *

"Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…"

The young woman's shaking voice echoed quietly in the empty dance foyer. All her fellow ballerinas were elsewhere and as soon as she was alone, Meg had broken down into pleading with all of heaven.

It had gotten chaotic far too soon. Christine had just arrived…this couldn't be happening. She could not have been brought back to them only to be whisked away so suddenly.

'_You and your mother are being selfish…Erik has every right to see her, same as you…'_

"But it's not the same!" She found herself verbally replying. "It's too soon. Christine can't possible know all that's going on and after what Mother told her she has to be so confused! _Mon dieu_, who knows what has happened!"

"Meg?"

Young Giry spun around at the sound of her name reverberating across the room. "Raoul!"

The young Vicomte stood in the open doorway, his usually twinkling eyes clouded over with seriousness.

"Raoul, what are you still doing here?"

"I was looking for you." De Chagny replied, "Meg, I'm…concerned. You and your mother both seemed preoccupied about something."

"Preoccupied? I…I am not sure what you are talking about…"

"Don't deny it."

Raoul strode over to the young woman immediately placing his hands on her forearms. The man's grip was gentle but persistent, his countenance visibly worried.

"I saw how you both acted when I ran into your mother in the hall…what aren't you telling me?"

Meg's mind reeled from Raoul's sudden presence. She felt cramped, trapped, caught red-handed in a scheme that was unraveling too fast too quickly.

"I-I can't..." She breathed, turning from Raoul's penetrating gaze shamefully.

Raoul put two fingers under Meg's chin forcing her to look him straight in the eyes.

"Meg, I heard you."

Young Giry gasped. '_No!' _"Raoul-"

"Where is my cousin?"

* * *

Bringing down her body temperature was priority and Erik became all too aware of how her thick clothing was trapping her body heat.

Wincing inwardly at the circumstances he found himself in, Erik quickly unbuttoned Lotte's blouse then slipped off her shoes and wool stockings. The grey woolen skirt, its underskirt and petticoats came off next and with it, a very red color to Erik's cheeks. He managed to focus his gaze back on Christine's face, silently thanking God for the muslin chemise she was wearing. He wasn't about to take _that _off. But the corset was restricting her already heavy breathing…

_"Erik…"_

"I'm here, Christine."

He tried once more to pour water down her throat before Christine squirmed away from him again. He refilled the basin and continued to soak Christine's face and neck, until she went back to murmuring incomprehensibly.

That brought him back to the problem of the corset. Heavy breathing had become severe gasps and moans had become rough wheezing.

Erik paused in hesitation before muttering a damning curse on every dressmaker in Paris. Gently pushing Christine onto her side, he entwined his fingers into the laces weaved into the back of the corset.

'_Whoever's brilliant idea it was to crush a woman's ribs until they suffocate should burn in…'_

A loud gasp broke into his thoughts. The Phantom of the Opera immediately turned towards the open archway of the alcove; coming into direct eye contact was Madame Antoinette Giry.

* * *

The Madame had braved traps, the treacherous lake, and the imminent threat of insanity to confront him. Never in all her wildest dreams, had she expected a shirtless Erik and a very much undressed Christine Daaé to be her awaiting doom in the lair. Antoinette tried very hard not to faint out of complete and miserable shock.

"What…what have you done?"

"Antoinette, I can explain."

The man's apparent calm and guileless expression made Giry focus into a furious state akin to a demon's tirade. The Madame stepped forward and slapped Erik across the mouth with a force of punch from a man twice her strength.

"_Explain?_ How can you further shame me? I have obeyed your every whim so you can take Christine down to your wretched dungeon to commit this unforgivable act of—"

"Madame I have done no such thing." Erik quietly cut in. Blood crept from the corner of his mouth, but his features held no malice. Surprising even himself, his passionate emotions were in his absolute control. He knew what it appeared to be, yet he knew what was happening. He would not make the situation worse by reacting like a madman. "This is not what it looks like."

"How _dare_ you lie to me!"Antoinette raised her hand to strike him again but Erik firmly grasped her wrist.

"Madame," Erik's voice remained quiet, but the intensity of his green eyes showed his patience was wearing thin. "Your frustration is understandable, but believe me when I say I have done nothing to shame Christine."

Erik, lowering his voice, leaned forward towards Antoinette. "And believe me when I say I will not allow you to strike me again."

Madame Giry met the man's harsh gaze with her own icy glare her breathing labored with anger.

"You expect me to forgive you so blindly? You are a fool to think I would ever trust another word uttered from your mouth."

Before the Phantom could retort, Christine shifted in her delirium and screamed.

"_No!_ Papa! Papa! _STOP!"_

Antoinette immediately pushed past Erik and rushed to the girl's side.

"Christine?" The woman shook her, but Christine writhed away.

"No! You killed him! _You killed him!"_

Christine's eyes opened blindly, gasping and crying aloud. Shocking both Erik and Antoinette, she struck out violently, trying to hit invisible torments.

"Erik! _Erik!_ Don't go!"

Giry gripped her shoulders firmly and forced her back down. Christine cried out again trying to loosen herself from the woman's tight hold.

"Erik hold her down!"

Not hesitating, the Phantom grabbed the girl's ankles. Immediately, Christine let out an ear-piercing scream. Erik looked down and inhaled sharply.

"What are you doing?" Antoinette shouted.

"Her right ankle is twisted awkwardly. I think it's broken." He replied weakly, his shock evident.

Antoinette narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to curtly inquire how that happened, but Christine's tossing made her bite back her harsh words.

"There is nothing we can do about it now. We must calm her down before she hurts herself further." Madame Giry muttered, "Hold her still until she stops thrashing. She is already beginning to tire."

Erik nodded numbly, carefully keeping his right hand on Christine's upper leg. Sure enough, Daaé moaned and collapsed weak from dehydration and exhaustion. The Madame murmured soothing words under her breath, stroking Christine's forehead until she remained relatively motionless.

"She burns with fever." Giry commented, trying to pry answers from the musical genius without pummeling him to the ground in rage.

"She fell." Erik curtly replied.

"_Pardon?"_

The Phantom sighed. He was treading in very hot water with Antoinette's temper on the rise. His short, vague retorts were not helping the situation.

"She fell into the mirror chamber."

If glares could murder, Erik would have been dead instantly. "She_ fell_ or did _you_ lock her in there?"

"Why would I do that?" He snapped back defensively.

"You've done it before. Christine would have been another victim to encourage this gory masquerade of your Opera Ghost alias."

"Do you think I am so insecure? Trust me; my _masquerade_, as you put it, needs no further encouragement, Antoinette. I have made sure of it."

Antoinette attempted to calm herself before she said something she would regret. She wiped the sweat from Lotte's brow gently before she spoke again.

"Your blind pride will be your downfall."

"Your blind compassion is yours." Erik retorted without hesitation. He rose to his full height turning to leave the room. "If you hadn't brought me here, none of this would be happening."

The Madame did not reply.

* * *

"She's _here? In Paris?_ "

The young woman nodded. Raoul cursed loudly. The secret was out.

"Why didn't you tell me Marguerite?"

"I couldn't," Meg answered, "Lotte asked to keep her presence a secret."

The Vicomte ran his hand through his thick hair, muttering to himself in French.

"When did she arrive?" He finally asked shortly.

"Yesterday afternoon during rehearsals. You had just left when I saw my mother sobbing with her."

"I missed her? How could I not have seen her?" Raoul asked himself incredulously.

Meg wanted to roll her eyes despite the tense circumstances. Raoul could be so theatrical at times.

"You were busy with the managers and _alluring_ the cast members."

Young de Chagny raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You make that sound as if I was committing a crime. What's wrong with being charming?"

"Nothing. I was just pointing out it was easy for you to not notice Lotte. All the attention directed to your person must have been distracting."

Raoul frowned deeply, catching Meg's none to subtle reprimand. "Don't try to change the subject. This isn't about me."

"When isn't it?"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Meg's tolerance suddenly disappeared. "Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself? Do you ever wonder why Christine doesn't want to see you? You are practically responsible for her going to Marseille!"

"I was trying to protect her!" Raoul bit back.

"You were trying to protect yourself! You couldn't stand the fact Christine trusted Erik more than she trusted her own family."

"That boy was dangerous, Meg and you know it. Christine was too young to realize that socializing with an illegitimate cur was damaging her already tarnished reputation!"

"A nine year old girl doesn't have a reputation. She was a child!"

"She was a misled child whose mentors' parenting skills were severely lacking."

"I never saw your family step in. My mother did what your family refused to do!"

"Daaé was a thorn in the family's side after my mother died. Gustave needed to go! Erik was simply a tool, a catalyst to set the explosion in motion. The Count put me up to it. I had to make my uncle angry enough to leave Paris."

"And Lotte? How could you have ripped away the only stability she had ever known?"

"I regret what I did to her more than anything, Meg, but Erik was a disease to an already poisoned family. He had to be rid of." Raoul snorted in disgust. "But obviously I have failed. _Erik_ is still here terrorizing _my_ opera house."

At Meg's astonished look, Raoul continued to speak.

"I am not a superstitious man, Meg, but it is a different matter when there are rumors of a 'ghost' living _under _the opera house. I know Erik is the Phantom. Your mother no doubt still protects him."

"Has not my mother the right to associate with whom she will?" Meg snapped defensively, "Erik happens to mean a lot to the _both_ of us. And Christine."

"No need to bark, mademoiselle. I know full well how much you love our dear ghost. That is not what I am interested in. _What is Christine doing here?"_

Meg smirked, not willing to give in. "Visiting."

"For God's sake woman, must I dance in circles with you? We both know Gustave would not let Christine _visit_ Paris."

"You're one to talk as if _you _cared! All this inquiry has naught a lick to do with Lotte and everything to do with your pride!"

"Are you insinuating I am_ proud_ to have this burden upon me? Do you honestly think I _wanted_ my accursed uncle to take Christine to the blasted coast? I _told_ you I was trying protecting her!"

"From a deformed boy with a temper as his only vice?" Meg questioned, "He was her _meilleur ami_! He would have never hurt her!"

"How would _you_ know?"

"_Because I took the time to know him!"_

Raoul shook his head. "And doing so has made you just as misguided as my cousin. How can you continue to defend their relationship, Meg? It is not enough that the Madame took in the boy? Did she have to allow him to associate with Lotte?"

A tense, weighty silence hung between the two young people.

Giry finally spoke. "I truly don't know how to respond to you, Raoul. I have always thought of you as a brother but your views regarding Lotte are…harsh."

"The truth is so."

Raoul averted his gaze from Meg's, but he did not leave the ballet foyer. After several moments, Marguerite sighed.

'_Mother, please find Christine soon…Erik is not the only one we have to worry about…'_

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

A/N: Just to avert any confusion, Raoul _has_ seen Lotte during the ten year period she lived in Marseille. Also, if you read between the lines, you can tell that Raoul holds a bit of a grudge against Antoinette for the whole thing.


	14. Chapter 14

_Paris countryside, 1869_

_"Come on, Christine!" the boy called._

"_Absolutely not!" The nine year old cried stubbornly, "There is no way I am getting on top of that…that…filthy hairball!"_

_Erik frowned at her darkly from his place on the pony. "This is Carmen, and she's not filthy…it's called chestnut. Now give me your hand!"_

"_But-"_

"_No 'buts'! S'accélérer!" The masked boy shouted, annoyed. "I am going to teach you how to ride, if it's the last thing I do."_

"_Obstinate rascal…" Christine muttered. "I will ruin my dress and stockings."_

"_You will thank me later."_

_Reluctantly, the girl hiked up her skirts and took Erik's outstretched hand. With one thickly muscled arm, Erik pulled up his best friend behind him, so that they both sat bareback on top of the stout little mountain pony._

"_Now what?" Christine spat angrily. _

"_Wrap your arms around my waist and hang on."_

"_Hang on? But-"_

_Erik dug his heels into the Carmen's flanks and mare and riders flew out into the meadow. Christine screamed and clung to him with all her might._

"_Slow down!"_

_Erik laughed, relishing the feel of flight and the wind on his face. "Oh, lighten up!" _

_He leaned forward, further entwining his fingers in Carmen's thick mane. "Come on girl; let's show Christine what we've got."_

_The pony neighed and plunged into a full out gallop. Christine knew her life was over._

"_Erik stop her now! I'm going to fall off!" She shouted into Erik's ear._

"_No you won't!" He hollered back, a grin of pure joy all over his visible features. _

"_I'm slipping!" Christine clutched Erik's shirt, her knuckles white from effort, but her legs were losing stability around the round pony's sides..._

_Carmen whinnied a cry of warning to her reckless rider, but it was too late. The masked lad turned back to see that his companion was no longer behind him. Panic struck his heart like a dagger. _

"_No…" Yanking back on the reins, he pulled Carmen around, his eyes searching for the girl in the wide meadow. Carmen's fast gallop had sent him a distance from where the girl had fallen…he couldn't see her…_

"_Christine!" _

_No answer._

"_Christine!" _

_His cries grew frantic, his voice becoming strangled with emotion and fright._

"_Christine, answer me!"_

_A horribly weak whimper echoed into his ears. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest._

"_Christine! I hear you!" Erik yelled, kicking the pony into an uneven canter, heading to where he heard his friend._

_Crashing into the clearing he just left, he saw a lump of white linen and brown hair… face down…deathly immobile. _

"_Christine!" Erik flew off the pony and ran as fast as his legs would allow him. He skidded to her side, gently turning the girl over on her back. Christine moaned and Erik saw blood seeping out of her right temple._

"_Erik?" Christine croaked. She winced as the boy placed a hesitant finger to her injury. _

"_Oh, Christine," Erik groaned, guilt striking him full on. "I am so sorry. I should have-"_

"_Shh…don't fret," Christine said softly, "I'm fine."_

"_Madame Giry is going to have my head."_

"_You're right, she will." Erik whirled around to face a tall, sour-faced teen with icy eyes and too long blonde hair. Raoul de Chagny sat atop his prancing thoroughbred a few yards away, his face a mixture of disgust and annoyance. _

"_Vicomte," Erik spat distastefully, "What are you doing here?"_

"_I might ask you the same thing, Erik." Raoul slipped off his horse with practiced ease. He tied the leather reins to a close-by tree and strode to the two adolescents. Erik stood up warily, watching his every movement. _

_Raoul came up alongside him, staring at the younger boy with mocking eyes. Erik met the harsh gaze bravely, standing his ground. Christine broke the intense silence between them as she often did._

"_I'm fine, thanks for asking Raoul." She slowly sat up, holding a palm to her head. _

"_You're bleeding." Raoul replied tartly. _

_Christine rolled her eyes, attempting to ignore her pain. "Yes, well I am human. We have blood leak out of us sometimes, if you haven't noticed."_

"_You could have gotten her killed with your reckless antics, boy." The Vicomte sneered, ignoring his cousin's reply and addressing Erik._

"_Like you care." Erik said his voice acidic, "I would have never let anything happen to her."_

"_Of course you wouldn't. Forgive me for not trusting a circus freak."_

"_Raoul, please!" Christine cried, anticipating Erik's inevitable and potentially dangerous reaction. "If you're quite finished could you help me up?"_

_Raoul faltered, no doubt expecting some physical attack by the other boy. Erik, however, glared at him before turning to tend the forgotten pony._

"_It's a wonder you two aren't the best of friends." Christine grumbled sarcastically as her cousin gently lifted her off the ground. Raoul didn't retort and set Lotte on her feet. She groaned and wavered, her balance thrown off by the head wound. Raoul instinctively caught her. _

"_Great," Raoul snapped, "Now look what you've done. She can't walk!" _

_Erik's half-exposed face paled and he swallowed worriedly. "Lay across her your lap when you mount. That way you can ride back without more damage to Christine." He replied, doing his best to remedy the situation._

"_Did I ask for your advice?" Raoul bit back sharply. Erik made no response. Raoul sighed, frustration evident on his entire person. _

"_You're insane, Christine." He mumbled under his breath._

"_It seems to run in the family." She replied weakly. She closed her eyes and winced as her temple throbbed with each pulse. Christine let her head loll against Raoul's chest, an uneasy feeling of barely sustained consciousness entering her senses._

_Raoul stomped to his impatient gelding, Christine limp in his arms. He scowled at the elevated saddle he needed to reach, back down at Christine and cursed. He unleashed an ugly expression on Erik who was watching anxiously with Carmen. _

"_The least you could do is help me stop the bleeding. It's soiling my waistcoat." _

_A shadow of doubt passed over Erik's face, but it disappeared quickly. Advancing toward Raoul, he ripped strips from off the bottom of his cotton shirt. He approached and wadded up a strip as he gently laid it on the girl's bloody scalp._

"_Ow…" She moaned._

"_Don't move a muscle Lotte or I swear I will tell Gustave everything." Raoul said unsympathetically. _

"_You promised…"_

"_I may change my mind. After this stunt, who knows what will happen to your little excursions, dear cousin."_

_Erik remained silent, methodically wrapping a thin band of cloth around Christine's head._

"_It's secure." He said after he had finished. _

"_Finally." The sixteen year old Vicomte growled. "Hold her."_

_Without another warning, Raoul virtually dumped Christine in Erik's unsuspecting arms to mount his horse. Erik staggered but shifted the girl's weight quickly into his arms. After whimpering at Raoul's inconsiderate act, Christine glanced up at Erik's pale face. _

"_Hello…" She said smirking playfully._

_Erik gulped hard, averting Christine's gaze. His breathing was labored, physical exertion and memories of how he was never allowed to touch much less carry human being…_

"_Give her to me." _

_Raoul's rapt command prevented Erik from dropping her in his close proximity to another child. Summoning all his considerable strength, he hefted her into Raoul's grasp. _

_Erik watched as they disappeared into the woods, leaving him to take Carmen back to the Populaire; alone._

* * *

A violin's mournful cry echoed hauntingly through the underground. It hummed into her eardrums quietly at first, but then became more distinguishable as she slowly breached the mist of unconsciousness. The notes were sorrowful, Christine later noted, but yet comforting. It called her, beckoned her from the torturing darkness of her nightmares. Christine groaned.

"Uhh…"

Forcing her eyes open, struggling against the foggy shadows, little Lotte was greeted by soft candlelight. The girl saw the irony. Initially, the torture chamber had blasted her with unforgiving, scathing, _horrible_ heat; now, _candlelight?_ That was…unexpected. Flexing her fingers, Christine immediately realized she wasn't lying on cold, unforgiving stone. It was soft.

And exactly why was the stone floor so _soft?_

This wasn't making any sense. Christine willed herself to sit upright. Wincing, she held her hand to her pulsing temples. The only thing near to the concept of comfort was the sound of the violin…wait. What was a violin doing in the torture chamber? Christine forced herself to open her eyes. She gasped.

'_What in the name of…'_

It was beautiful. The room—or illusion, she wasn't quite sure yet—was a unique architectural wonder all its own. She had never seen anything like it. There were small candelabras in the corners of the room and white furs of unknown mammals covering the stone floor. Truthfully, the room was not anything special. It was very simple in nature, only furnished in bare, seemingly unnecessary objects. But there was something_ different_ about it, _magical_ even.

'_A magical torture chamber…you have officially lost your sanity…'_

But it _felt_ real. The velvet plush beneath her _felt_ cushioning, if somewhat low to the ground. Squinting against the dim light, she realized that she wasn't in a bed at all. It had a head…_of a bird_?

She leaned forward to examine the intricate engravings on it…

"Ah!"

Instantaneously, a sharp unexpected pain shot through her right foot. Whipping off the thin linen sheet, Christine found that the said foot was heavily wrapped in white bandage strips. She hissed in pain despite her gentle attempt to touch it. No doubt it was swollen.

'_With your luck, it's probably all shades of purple and green too…'_

Christine ignored her thoughts. She realized something she hadn't noticed before. The violin had stopped playing.

An eerie thought stole into Daaé's mind.

'_Who was playing the violin?'_

All of a sudden, she felt the hairs on her arms and neck rise. Her heart ceased to pump as she felt the blood drain from her face and her lungs constrict tightly; like when she was on the stage the afternoon she had arrived. She felt as if she was being watched.

Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé slowly looked away from the offending limb. Her eyes led themselves up to the doorway.

In it, stood a man.

A man with fiery green eyes and a white mask.

* * *

"Hello Christine," the man said softly, "It's been a long time."

Breathing was not an option. Thinking an even less possibility. She could just blankly stare. What she was feeling exactly, she could never explain.

His eyes. The intensity in which they looked at her was surreal. She had never seen such reservoirs of passion. Of human sorrow and frailty. These were not a man's eyes. They were _his _eyes.

"_Erik_." She breathed.

He nodded ever so slightly, confirming. Chrisitne wasn't even aware she had said his name aloud. But she had. She had and she didn't know it.

She's lost it. Antoinette told her he was _dead_. "_Erik is dead_." This wasn't real, this wasn't happening.

"I-You're supposed to be dead."

"It depends how you define 'dead.'" The man—Erik— replied. "To most, I am."

"But…you _are_. This…this isn't real, I'm hallucinating, I'm—this is part of the torture. I'm dead aren't I?" Daaé was visibly shaking. Her voice became strangled and high pitched. Hysteria is obviously near if not already present. "This is my punishment for leaving for _you_. B-but you know I didn't _mean_ to, I was _forced, you have to know that_—_mon dieu_, you have _to_. I didn't—he d-doesn't _know_ he thinks I _left _him… He thinks _I _killed him…"

"Christine—" The illusion of Erik appeared agitated, oddly disturbed even.

"I didn't mean to—"

"—Christine stop that—" He was calling her name with force now.

"—No! It was an _accident_! It was _Papa_!"

"Stop that!"

Christine didn't notice how the ghost was walking towards her slowly.

"Erik! Erik!_ I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to!"_

"_STOP THAT!"_

* * *

"_You left her alon__e__ with him?"_

Madame Giry waved the question away with a weary hand. It was morning, but for the older Giry it was simply another hour she had spent awake. She was exhausted. Spending all night bringing Lotte's fever down, while worrying herself into a grave about how she was going to explain the entire turn of events to her when she awoke. It had all happened in Erik's_ lair_ no less; with Erik _there,_ of course. Her only comfort was that now he was fully dressed.

The Vicomte was cursing now. Vehemently cursing, actually.

"I thought you were misled before, Madame, but this—_this is unexplainably stupid_!"

"Raoul that's enough—"

"No, _no_ it's not Meg!" Young de Chagny hardly ever wasted his breath to raise his voice; especially with someone who was not of noble French blood. But when he did—his resulting temper tantrum could be a force to be reckoned with. Many a fellow's jaw could attest to that. "Your mother has—_is_—allowing Christine—_Christine_, mind you—_alone with Erik!"_

"It's either that or harming Lotte further." Meg was trying very, _very_ hard to remain civil with the man. "You heard in what condition Mother saw her. Erik was there. He _rescued_ her."

"From a trap he constructed with his own accursed hands!" He shouted. With just the three of them holed up in Madame Giry's apartment on the far side of the Opera Populaire, there was a slim chance anyone else's prying ears would be a problem. "I find it difficult to believe that that poor excuse for a being, much less a man, can be safe company for Lotte."

Meg didn't retort, not trusting her tongue. Raoul, thankfully, took the moment to catch his breath, letting a tense, odd sort of silence resume. Madame Giry was suddenly very glad she hadn't told him all of the details concerning what condition Christine had indeed been in. The condition of Lotte's clothing hadn't been reassuring.

"I can't believe this. This can't be happening." de Chagny resumed his previous occupation of degrading everyone in existence—except himself of course.

Meg suppressed the urge to slap the man. She resorted to glowering at him from under her eyelids.

"Reality is a harsh fact, Raoul. It's happening. "

The glare is returned. Apparently, all the negative feelings were mutual.

"You're brutally at ease with the whole idea. Exactly, how comfortable are you with our opera ghost?"

"How dare you imply-"

"Enough!" Antoinette's voice escalated over the youngers'. In every sense, she couldn't take it anymore. "The both of you. This entire conversation is completely childish."

Raoul scowled but obeyed by dropping into a nearby chair. Meg followed suit. The ballet mistress sighed. Maybe coming back to the surface had been a bad idea. But did she have a choice?

As practically Christine's mother, probably not—maternal instinct said not to. As Madame Antoinette Giry, the esteemed head of the _corps de ballet_, she couldn't just disappear for an entire round of final rehearsals for the first performance of _Il Muto. _Things would just become worse if the population of the opera house became a little more interested in her excursions. As it was, another thing told her that if people began to suspect, Erik would be less trusting. Common sense told her being in his good graces was the best thing for everyone, especially Lotte. Besides, Christine's fever had broken and Erik was acting normal enough. He hadn't bothered her the entire night.

Despite her doubts, deep down she knew Erik would not bring himself low enough to hurt Lotte.

She sincerely hoped her reasoning would stand throughout the day.

* * *

Out of every instrument he had ever touched, the violin had the most calming effect on him. So he played. As the stringed instrument obeyed the will of his fingers, Erik's mind was stilled in a way morphine never could.

Giry had left him alone with _her_, surprisingly. She must have been more tired than he thought. Not that he given her any reason to think he would hurt her.

'_Besides, of course, being the reason why Gustave took Christine away in the first place and the mind behind the mirror chamber...'_

Yes, well, no one in his life has ever been perfect. Least of all him. But that was beside the point.

"Ah!"

His bow screeched against the strings. Immediate silence followed the ungraceful halt in his playing. The Phantom was not fooled. He had heard it. He knew what it was. He knew _who_ it was. It was best not to lie to himself. That just made things more complicated.

Erik swallowed hard.

He set the delicate instrument on his organ bench, purposefully keeping his resolve steady when he reached the alcove containing his Swan bed.

Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé was not looking at him when he entered. The doe eyed beauty is holding her injured ankle. Somehow, Erik suspected that had he known his twisted invention would do this to Lotte, he wouldn't have been made at all. However, it's a hardly manifested regret and not nearly as important as the emotion of anticipation building up in his chest. Christine had sensed him. He could tell by the way she had tensed. Her curl covered head seemed to rise inch by inch, slowly. Christine met his gaze.

He couldn't breathe, but somehow managed to speak.

"Hello Christine. It's been a long time."

Even to his own ears, the statement seemed flat and redundant. Considering the circumstances, he's surprised he can talk at all, yet he knew he had to.

"_Erik_."

He nodded.

"I-You're supposed to be dead."

'_That all depends on your point of view….'_

"It depends how you define 'dead.' To most, I am."

Goodness. Did he just sound _amused_?

"But…you _are_…"

The situation was not amusing, however. Not in the slightest. Erik immediately saw Christine wass near hysterical. For reasons he couldn't explain, that frighted him.

"This…this isn't real, I'm hallucinating, I'm—this is part of the torture. I'm dead aren't I? This is my punishment for leaving for _you_. B-but you know I didn't _mean_ to, I was _forced, you have to know that_—oh _mon Dieu_, you have _to_. I didn't—he d-doesn't _know_ he thinks I _left _him… He thinks _I _killed him…"

"Christine—" Erik was shaken. Something is wrong…

"I didn't mean to—"

"—Christine stop that—"

'_She shouldn't be like this…'_

"—No! It was an _accident_! It was _Papa_!"

"Stop that!"

"Erik! Erik!_ I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to!"_

"_STOP THAT!"_

The Phantom has his hands on her shoulders, shaking her back to reality. How he got there, only God knows. He can feel Christine's body trembling through his fingers, like she was in the mirror chamber, but he's determined to keep her awake—_sane_—this time.

Daaé just stares, expressionless.

"I…I know it wasn't—it wasn't your fault."

'_Are you confessing?' _

'_Not now…' _

"Listen to me," Erik eased slowly onto the bed, positioning himself near her, "I'm not dead. You're not hallucinating. _Do you hear me?_ I am real."

Christine repeated his words, processing them in her strained mind. "I-I'm not hallucinating?"

"No. I—You found me. I am not dead. "

Erik never knew how long he sat there, holding Christine's shoulders watching, waiting, for the fog to clear from her senses.

"Oh, Erik…"

He's surprised, shocked actually, when the girl forcefully buries her head in his chest, sobbing. Instinctively he tenses, already tightening his grip on her arms to push her away. Christine, however, is persistent. She leans into him, refusing to acknowledge his discomfort.

"Christine, let go." His voice is oddly frantic.

Daaé clings on tighter, her fingers digging into his shirt and mumbling incoherently.

"I thought you were dead—she told you me you were dead. S-she…"

"_Mother! Stop you're hurting me!"_

"_DON'T TOUCH ME!"_

Sweat begins to bead on his forehead and his breathing is decidedly irregular. It shouldn't be like this. No one can touch him. He can't touch anyone, not even his own mother…

"Erik, Erik, don't leave me…not again…I'm sorry…_so_ sorry…"

If possible, the girl clutches him even tighter, desperation evident in her voice. Christine needs him; that much is obvious. It's like when they were children, one finding comfort in the other... in something familiar, something solid, something firm in the instability of her life.

But that didn't make his breathing and acceptance of Christine's embrace any less strenuous for him.

"Let go, Lotte."

Erik knows he's at his breaking point when he lets her pet name slip. He never called her that. Only the Girys and Raoul; never him.

* * *

"_Let go, Lotte."_

The demand was clear, spoken harsh and low. She's emotionally distressed, hysterical, and her wits at a complete loss, but there's no mistaking the brutal command in his tone.

Christine shifts, releasing the fabric of Erik's shirt from her fingers. She sits herself up, watching him with caution.

Erik looks relieved as he stands up quickly, moving away from her. She immediately feels guilty.

"I-I'm sorry."

He doesn't seem to hear her, his eyes closed and chest heaving as if he's taking deep breaths. Christine swallowed hard.

'_What now?' _She pondered.

Silence is her only answer for a few moments.

"It's—it's alright. I'm fine." Erik opened his eyes. The green orbs have become intense once more.

Daaé doesn't respond right away. What does she say? She has no idea where she is, how she got there, and Erik is here. Alive.

'_I'll be lucky if I don't lose my mind…'_

'_Maybe you already have…'_

She shivers at the thought. Erik notices.

"Are you cold?" he asks, the exposed part of his half covered brow creasing slightly.

"I…I don't know." Truly, she doesn't. Do lunatics feel anything?

Her strange reply seems to concern the man. He quickly leaves the room. Christine half suspects he's been summoned back to wherever ghosts go when they disappear. After a moment, Erik returns with a wool blanket.

"Take this. You can catch your death down here."

She obeyed. Christine suddenly gasped.

"My—my clothes! Where are…?"

For the first time since she's awoken, she realizes she's in nothing but her chemise. Just her chemise. With Erik. Alone.

Christine can feel her cheeks burn.

'_Apparently lunatics can still feel embarrassed…' _A cruelly cynical part of her hisses.

"I took the liberty in…cooling you down."

Daaé doesn't notice the way Erik shifted his feet or the way he averted his eyes when he spoke. His odd statement confuses her too much.

"You…what?"

"You were in a dangerously high fever. I…had to improvise. The torture chamber—"

Her breath catches at that. "Oh."

Erik doesn't say anything more. There's no use. He's mentioned _it._

"I—You should rest, Christine." He says after several moments of awkward silence.

Christine looks up at him. She sees the way he's just barely softened his features. The gesture makes her trust him. She nods.

"Alright."

Lotte knows it's startling how she trusts him so quickly. But it's Erik. She can't imagine not trusting him. Besides she's too tired to protest…

Christine leans back into the soft velvet plush, sighing. She closes her eyes, the overwhelming feelings of being unsure and confused rushing on all at once, exhausting her.

He manages not to visibly react. The Phantom waits noiselessly until her breathing becomes even. Then, ever so slowly, he reaches up to pull down on the black cord hanging unobtrusively above the bed. He watches as it lowers a thin black fabric over her, shielding her, protecting her.

"Sleep well, Christine."


	15. Chapter 15

Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

_Ting… ting… ting_

Young Christine Daaé's eyes fluttered open. A temperate, yet persistent sound ringing in her eardrums….

_Ting…ting…ting_

She immediately sat up, confused by the odd tune that had suddenly awakened her. A sheer, black fabric hung around the bed. Lotte absentmindedly pulled on the hanging cord to lift the curtain, listening to the tune that was sounding oddly familiar….

_Masquerade!_

_Paper faces on parade!_

_Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you!_

_Masquerade…_

The tune softly died away, but Christine continued to hum the cheery chorus under her breath.

_Every face a different shade…_

_Masquerade!_

_Look around—there's another mask behind you…_

The source was a musical box sitting on a table in the room. It was designed in the form of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. Christine, despite raw protests from her injury, shifted to face it.

'_The handiwork is exquisite…it's beautiful…'_

She reached for it, wanting to feel what it was made of, but a deep voice brought her up short.

"If you admire it, I wouldn't touch it."

Christine jerked back her hand as if it had been burned. The Phantom of the Opera stood in the doorway once more, piercing her through with his gaze.

'_His eyes burn…' _She couldn't help but think.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"She started.

"I know. You don't have to apologize." Came the short reply.

Suddenly the wool blanket became very interesting. She drew it up closer to her chest, fingering the threads of it nervously. Erik, however, mistook the clutching of the blanket as a testament to her sense of propriety.

"Your clothes are on the floor beside you." he said, "You should find them in good order."

'_Of course you will…It's not liked he ripped them of you or anything…' _

Christine blushed crimson, her thoughts appearing on her face quite profoundly.

"I'll leave you alone to change." Erik said, a hint of similar discomfort tinting his voice.

"_Merci._" The girl muttered, embarrassed beyond words.

Several minutes later, Christine has begun to wonder if had been better if he hadn't left. He blouse had been fairly simple but her skirt and accompanying underskirts were soon problematic. Her foot wouldn't let her move, much less pull on her skirts, without agonizing protest.

'_You could always ask him to—'_

"Absolutely not." Christine verbally interrupted herself. "I do not need his help with dressing…it's indecent. We're not children anymore."

Biting down on her lower lip, Daaé bore through the pain as she pulled on her gray day skirt, her blouse soon tucked under it. The stockings, she knew, would be suicide to attempt over her swollen ankle. Her corset was completely out of the question; she couldn't put it on without assistance.

Despite her determination, Christine couldn't help but gasp in pain as she stopped to catch her breath. The simple action of changing garments was excruciating. She knew she wouldn't be able to get up, much less stand.

"Erik?" she asked softly, her voice almost inaudible in her hesitancy.

She didn't receive a response; and sitting there would not help her any.

Sighing heavily, Christine eased down to the floor, holding in a yelp. Crawling was her only option.

* * *

Erik sat at his black organ in contemplative silence, not being able to fully ignore the subject of interest sequestered in his lair.

He sighed. There was still much left unsaid between them. How was one to bridge the gap? They hadn't spoken since they were children and he wasn't exactly the conversational kind of man. When he spoke, it was usually as a mysterious voice behind a wall or snapping at the Madame to stay out of his affairs.

Needless to say, Christine was making life increasingly difficult for the Opera Ghost. He just wanted to speak with her, a very simple desire. Then why was that so _blasted_ difficult?

'_Because you're afraid…you're afraid to tell her what you have become, resorting to terrorizing innocent inhabitants of an opera house…'_

'_They are not innocent,'_ Erik angrily thought, _'No one is…'_

'_Thinking like that will not get you anywhere…you have no one to blame but yourself…no one forced you to become the Phantom…'_

"I can think of a slew of persons…"

'_Can you truly blame your mother for hating you? She gave birth to a demon….what woman wants that? And the gypsy, can you really blame him for using you the way he did? As an entertainment piece, to be ridiculed and jeered at? To be at another's mercy is all you have ever been good for, Erik…but this isn't about them is it? Christine is the subject of your thoughts…you want to blame her for all this….but can you really hold it against her to want to leave _you_?'_

"Are you alright?" a shaking voice plunged into his gloomy thoughts.

With speed uncanny to a man of his muscular weight, the masked man whirled around.

Young Daaé was peering up at him from across the wide expanse of the main room—on her knees.

"Christine? Wha…what are you doing?" Erik asked in complete shock.

"I…was restless. I had to get up, Erik." Christine murmured sheepishly, "I called for you but—"

"You should have waited for me to fetch you!" Erik thundered, standing up immediately and striding toward her.

Much to his surprise and chagrin, Christine began to scowl angrily.

"I am not a dog you can just 'fetch' at your will." The girl snapped.

Erik had reached her now, his eyes fiery and obvious irritation lacing his person. Why didn't the woman just stay put? And why is she mad at him? He'd been nothing but helpful…

"Forgive me." Erik retorted, his patience and benevolence worn too thin, "You would prefer to crawl like one."

Christine gaped at the harsh comment and seemed ready to say something just as biting, but instead dropped her gaze to stare at the cold stone floor.

"I did try to call you, but you didn't hear me." Christine whispered, dragging her finger in an invisible pattern on the ground, "I just—needed a change of scenery is all. I don't want to be a burden or anything, it's just…"

Christine paused, exhaling sharply.

"It's just been a long time and…and I wanted to see you."

"_I wanted to see you…"_

Erik couldn't deny odd thrill he feels to hear those words; but he quickly shook it off.

'_Don't get used to it…'_

"Get up off the floor." He demanded, more severely than he meant to.

Erik couldn't help but notice the flicker of hurt in her eyes when Christine looked up at him.

"I can't." She says almost apologetically. "I hurt my ankle in the fall."

'_Wonderful….your insensitivity has reached a new low…'_

Erik ground his teeth—partly at himself, partly at the situation before him. There was only one way he could get her back to bed and resting. He had to carry her— and _carrying_ her required_ touching_ her.

"Christine…sit still for a minute."

Lotte nodded obediently. The Phantom lowered himself until he was swatting beside her.

"This may hurt a bit."

"What are you going to do?" Christine asked somewhat tentatively. She was not sure what the man was planning now…

"I'm—I'm going to have to carry you back to the Swan divan. You can't stay out here like this."

By the way Daaé's brown eyes widen, he knew she distinctly remembered his avoidance of physical human contact. Her gaze then becomes questioning, but she didn't voice her inquiries.

"If that is what you think is best." She murmured after a moment, her statement an obvious mode of escape from his inevitable discomfort.

"It'll be less strenuous to your injury." Erik says, ignoring the hinting quip.

Christine regarded him for a moment. Erik half suspected she wouldn't let him touch her, even if he was trying to be of assistance.

"Alright."

* * *

Almost immediately after her acquiesce was voiced, Erik crouched and slid his arms under her knees and back. Christine was in his arms in one elegant motion.

Instinctively, she grasped his loose white shirt to balance herself. Erik froze. Christine felt how his muscles tensed and she wondered if she'd be dropped. When her rear didn't meet the ground, Christine dares to glance up at the man. She silently gasped.

His gaze was terrifying; terrifying, not in a fearful manner of speaking, but terrifying in intensity and gravity. He stared at her, his facial features obscured by mask and a blank expression. He didn't move, but Christine swore she saw his green irises swirling with varied emotion.

Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé had seen many shades of that bright color in her life. Living on the coast, traders had occasionally flaunted their wares of emeralds and jade. She had known what the color green had looked like in its best of forms. But that had been before she saw _his_ eyes.

As a boy, Erik's gaze had consisted of a dark, moody glare that originated from grey-green tinted orbs peering behind his half mask. The look had haunted her dreams many nights growing up and she had never forgotten it. But now, instead of a melancholy sort of coldness, like a despair often seen in the eyes of an abused animal, Christine saw a man's eyes—eyes of piercing, burning intensity that belayed a person with strong, unchecked emotions.

Mesmerized in that glance, Christine felt a shudder slide down her spine. Something told her circumstances had changed in the last decade. Something told her that Erik was dangerous.

* * *

Erik tried not to think about how inappropriate it was to slowly ease a young woman into the lying position without a chaperone. Oddly, Christine didn't seem uncomfortable—besides her obvious pain in her ankle—or flinch at his touch.

And for that he was thankful.

Lotte pulled the wool blanket he had provided around her bare legs, tucking herself in once more into the Swan divan. He didn't remember the elegant couch being used so many times. It was more a décor piece than an object of necessity. Despite its beauty, it was a product of an obsessive drive aroused by severe depression. Yet, if it hadn't been for it, Lotte would have been recovering on his floor.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, after several moments of watching Lotte adjust herself to the surroundings once more.

"_Oui_," Christine nods, "Thank you."

"It's the least I can do since you fell into my—"

Erik immediately stopped short, shocked at his own honesty. Where did that come from? He never apologized; he never abdicated, recanted, repented, or regretted any of his less than reputable actions. He was the Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. The Unseen Terror. He humbled himself to no one.

'_She's still affecting you after all these years…'_

The thought unsettled him. He had thought—no, _truly believed_—that Christine Daaé no longer meant anything to him. Erik had convinced himself that he didn't need to her. He didn't miss her. He didn't long to be a child again, running in the meadows with another who didn't care if he had a face of a demon. For ten years, Christine had meant nothing to him.

And yet, here she was, and Erik suddenly knew that his emotions had not changed. He still cared deeply for Christine and he was a different person—Erik, not the Phantom—when he was with her.

And that terrified him.

* * *

"Erik! Wait!" Christine called, instinctively reaching towards the man's departing figure.

Obviously, something had suddenly troubled her friend and he had turned abruptly to leave. What it was that had triggered this response, she couldn't yet guess, but she wasn't going to let him go so quickly.

Thankfully, Erik seemed to slow his withdrawal and paused at the doorway, slightly turning toward the sound of her voice.

"Please," She pleaded, gently, "Don't go."

"I doubt my company would be desirable, Christine." His tenor timbre sounded melancholy.

"Any company would be better than the stone walls and candles." Christine said lightly, attempting to lighten the man's mood. "It's quite lonely in here after a while. Come, sit down. "

The dark haired damsel patted the side of the Swan divan encouraging him to sit next to her. Erik shook his head.

"Christine…I can't."

"Why?"

The question was asked gently, with pity and understanding, but it caused Erik to sigh heavily, as if he had a great burden on his shoulders.

"Things aren't the same. The times have changed since you left Paris…_I've_ changed."

"Won't you tell me what's troubling you?" Christine asked softly, tilting her head slightly.

Erik remained silent, staring at Daaé with obvious conflict flickering in his eyes.

"I won't know unless you tell me Erik. Please…stay with me."

Very slowly, almost painfully, he eased towards her. She knew it was against his will, even his nature, to oblige to anyone else's pleas. He didn't move to sit next to her, however, and he settled to lean against the cold wall.

'"_How are you?"… Probably isn't the best thing to ask… "My, you've grown"….I am not his mother…'_

"I thought you were dead." Daaé blurted before she could think to talk herself out of it.

"What?" Erik replied, slightly caught off guard.

Christine looked away from him to hide the blush rising once more to her cheeks.

"I—Antoinette told me that you were dead." She repeated, after swallowing down her embarrassment.

"That doesn't surprise me."

Christine's head shot up to face him again. "Why not?"

Erik shrugged tensely; there was nothing carefree about the movement. He obviously was not comfortable with the conversation.

A weighty silence hung between them.

Christine racked her mind, fumbling to find the right words to say. Suddenly, her heart leapt into her chest. An odd idea struck her. It had its risks of failure—anything involving Erik was so—but it was the only thought she could conjure up…

"Erik," She began slowly, making sure she caught his attention. He eyed her warily. "Do—do you still sing?"

* * *

If the Phantom of the Opera had been flustered before, he was undeniably shocked now.

"Sing?" He asked numbly.

Lotte nodded.

'_Of course you sing! What else have you done in this sewer? You live in an opera house for the Virgin's sake!'_

Erik swallowed hard, suddenly feeling unexplainably nervous.

"I…it's been a long time since I've sung for anyone but the walls."

Christine saw right through his excuse. She smiled broadly, her dark eyes brightening to the point it made Erik's heart flutter strangely.

"Would you sing for me then?"

Erik leaned further into the wall, the back of his head pushed into it as much as possible. He wished it would engulf him. But her eyes were so hopeful…

He closed his eyes, forcing his nerves to settle.

'_I can do this….it's for Christine…for Christine…Christine…'_

The Phantom opened his eyes, a determination overwhelming him. He could do this. He _would_ do this. And so, he opened his mouth.

And he sang.

* * *

_Later…_

Raoul clenched his fists as paced up and down his office set aside for him in the Populaire. He was alone now, attempting to gather his composure. The Vicomte had to be ready for the performance of _Il Muto_ that evening. He could not appear distressed. He could not have the condition of his only cousin on his mind. He could not—

A hard knock broke into Raoul's thoughts.

"Enter!"

A blond woman gracefully sailed into the room in a white ballet shift, an uncharacteristic dirty look featured on her face.

"Is that how you address everyone?" Marguerite Giry asked distastefully.

Raoul sighed. This was not what he wanted to deal with right now.

"What now, Meg?"

"Mother wanted me to come fetch you."

"Why?"

"Lotte seems to have reappeared."

The Vicomte didn't even bother to wait for Meg as he burst through the door.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: By the way, "Morpheus" is the Greek god of dreams/sleep. His name is where we get the word "morphine." He's mentioned again in this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 16: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

"Lotte, darling, wake up."

"Mmm…"

Christine groaned in protest, but began to open her eyes in response to the gentle voice calling her from another deep sleep.

"There you go _mon cherie_, wake up now…"

"E...Erik?"

The young girl sat up expecting to see a certain green-eyed man standing over her, perhaps giving her a refreshing drink of water…

"No, my dear, it is Antoinette."

Christine blinked for a few moments; confusion was written all over her features in an instant.

"_Maman_? But-but I thought…"

The Madame hushed her and tenderly pushed the girl back down into the bed.

"Easy now, _ma fille._ You have had a nasty fall…you must not strain yourself."

Young Lotte, never one to push aside a sincere helping hand, couldn't restrain herself from gripping one of Giry's wrists in a sudden movement. Antoinette's brows furrowed with anxiety.

"Lotte?"

"Where is he?" Christine's voice became high pitched. She tried pushing past the Madame, looking with worried brown eyes over the woman's shoulder. "He was here moments ago, _Maman_. He sang me to sleep…"

"Who? Who are you talking about?" Antoinette asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Erik!" Christine shouted, louder than either of them expected. "He was here _Maman_! He isn't dead!"

Quickly recovering from the unexpected outburst, Antoinette released Christine, suffering the girl a bit more personal space. Giry stiffened considerably, agitated at the mention of the Phantom once again. That man seemed to infect everything…

"Erik isn't here, Christine. Look around, my dear. You're in my quarters."

Indeed, Daaé had realized she was no longer in the strange room with the Swan bed and the cymbal-playing monkey. And Erik wasn't there anymore.

"_Maman_, I saw him." Christine, all grogginess pressed to the back of her mind, "He…he helped me. He's not dead. I-I remember there was mist…swirling mist a-and a vast glassy lake-"

"_Arrêt!"_ Antoinette cried out harshly. "That is enough Lotte. Living in the past will not aid you in the future. Erik is not here."

The ballet mistress' features were cold and unforgiving, grey lines etched into every detail of her face. Christine suddenly remembered what Erik had told her.

"_Antoinette told me that you were dead." _

"_That doesn't surprise me."_

Lotte's eyes widened. Shock and hurt poured onto her face just as prominent as anger and mistrust had flooded onto Antoinette's.

"You…you lied to me."

A flicker of regret passed over the older woman's face; but it did not last.

"I did what was necessary. Erik _is_ dead. He is dead to us all, Christine." She spoke softly, but the severe edge to her tone still remained. "Sooner or later, you will see that. And that I truly regret."

"You_ lied_ to me!" Daaé was shaking with emotion.

"Do not raise your voice at me," Antoinette snapped back, "I did what was best and—"

An insistent rapt on the door cut Giry short.

"Madame! Let me in this instant or I swear I will break the door down!"

Christine let out a shocked cry. "You told him! You told _Raoul!_"

* * *

De Chagny Estate, Paris, France 1869

_Raoul de Chagny's resolve had already begun to dissolve as soon as he knocked on the thick, sturdy door. The young Vicomte sighed, trying to strengthen his trembling nerves. He hated feeling this weak, this powerless, this exposed and insecure. The accursed four letter word always accompanied those emotions—fear. And God knew how he hated being afraid of anything. _

'_But all this will change…he will see I am not a worthless pup….he will appreciate me…'_

"_Come in!"_

_Raoul knew he wasn't getting a kinder invitation. Count Philibert de Chagny, by anyone's standard, was _not_ kind. As soon as he entered his father's private study, the brutally cold blue eyes sliced into him._

"_Raoul," The Count's voice was acidic, "You had better have an excuse to interrupt me. I do not have time for your sniveling."_

"_Yes Father," Young de Chagny replied, working to gaze straight into the man's eyes. "This will not waste your time."_

"_It had better not."_

_Raoul hesitated, shifting from one foot to another as he stood before his father's scrutinizing eyes-he had not been invited to sit. _

'_Here goes…'_

'_Traitor! You promised Lotte! Don't do it…'_

'_Your father will love you for it….he hates Gustave…'_

"_Speak boy!"_

"_I…I have a piece of information that may push Uncle Gustave over the edge, Father. It might finally get him out of our affairs." _

"_I'm listening."_

"_As you know, Lotte—"_

"_Lotte?"_

"_Christine. It's her pet name."_

"_Ah, yes," Philibert leaned back into his leather seat. "My sister's last 'gift' to her miserable husband before she died. What about her?"_

"_She has a friend, a close friend that Gustave does not approve of. An orphan Madame Giry found in a travelling circus. A young boy."_

"_I see young Christine is already following in her mother's footsteps." Philibert snorted, "A wench… already seducing the useless."_

"_It's not like that, Father." Raoul felt something rise to his little cousin's defense. The accusation was ridiculous, uncalled for even. "They are children. Only friends."_

"_Don't raise your voice at me boy." The older man snapped, "I will not permit my son to defend the Daaés in my own home." _

"_Of course not, sir. Apologies." The Vicomte took a deep breath. _

"_And what might this boy have that can possible aid me? I suppose we could kill Gustave and blame it on a delinquent child of the gutter, but I hardly call that a workable plan, Raoul."_

_The young boy suppressed an involuntary shiver. His father had no idea how close his jest was to Erik's true nature._

"_I agree, but it was not what I was thinking of. Gustave will be quite upset if he finds out his daughter has been socializing with the boy behind his back. The knowledge of it held and no doubt encouraged, by Christine's caretakers—the Girys—will not go well with him. What if we let it slip that Christine has, in fact, deliberately disobeyed him? Even Gustave has a false sense of twisted honor, Father. To him, the boy could damage his reputation. Granted, Daaé's entire idea to protect Christine's reputation is completely ludicrous since we know he's no gentleman. Nonetheless, it may be enough to send him away from Paris—hence, away from us. He's expressed sentiments about leaving the capital anyway so it's very probably this idea might work."_

_The Vicomte held his breath after he laid out his proposition. The Count had closed his eyes, pondering his son's words. His fingers were pressed together in pensive thought. _

'_Please father…see that this could work! See that I am capable and worthy to be your heir!'_

_The silence was heavy; but it did not last forever. A cruel, proud smirk broke across Philibert's face. His eyes opened—harsh tints laced his pupils._

"_Do it. And do not disappoint me."_

_With a gesture, Raoul was dismissed to do his father's bidding. Lotte's secret was no longer. _

* * *

The Opera Ghost sat; waiting watchfully for the performance. He was black and invisible to the naked eye. His midnight-shaded cloak covered any sliver of light that might emanate from his being. If any had caught sight of him at that moment—and those who chanced their line of sight in his direction, thought him but a trick of the shadows—they would have seen a tall, muscular figure carved in stone of ebony, gems of dazzling jade staring from behind a haunting white mask. Terrifying, unfeeling, uncaring, hating of all those milling about beneath him, hating the lives they lived, the breath that filled their lungs. He envied their freedom, their carefree manner. He could have killed them all—_should_ have killed them _all_—yet, a gleam of light pierced though his soul. The piercing light was not gentle; it pushed the blackness of his innermost parts painfully away. Yet, no matter how agonizing the dividing of him and his sins had been, it was not wholly unwelcome.

The bearer of that gleam—that is what had kept him from fighting. Christine Daaé.

* * *

_Earlier…_

"Would you sing for me then?"

'_I can do this….it's for Christine…for Christine…Christine…' _And he opened his mouth and sang.

_Nighttime sharpens heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_

Erik had raised an eyebrow, questioning silently whether he should continue. Christine smiled gently, nodding her encouragement.

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls it splendor…._

_Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender…_

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day _

_Turn your face away from cold unfeeling light—_

_And listen to the music of the night…_

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!_

_Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar!_

As he masterfully struck the notes of his melody, young Lotte leaned back into the divan, her brown eyes slowly beginning to shadow under her eyelids.

_And you'll live as you've never lived before…_

_Softly, deftly, music shall surround you…_

_Feel it, hear it, secretly possess you…_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,_

_In this darkness which you know you cannot fight—_

_The darkness of the music of the night…_

Erik had stopped there, letting the beautiful notes echo and fade into the air. The words of his composition, originally, had not ended for another stanza or two…but it did not matter. As he watched, Christine's eyes flutter close and her breathing become more and more even, he knew it did not matter how _much_ he sang, but with how much of _himself_ he sang into his piece.

Indeed, he had sung with all his heart and he knew that was all that counted.

* * *

The Phantom of the Opera sighed. How he wished to spend eternity doing just that. Just singing with all himself, no underlying hate driving his emotions, but just doing what he wanted—no, what he was made for—and to do it with people who truly cared about him.

And he cared about in return.

"If only it were that simple." Erik sighed to himself, inaudible to anyone but the wood planks that flanked him as he hid in the scaffolding above stage.

Madame Antoinette Giry had been one of those chosen few. Presently, he wasn't so sure. Granted, she had left Lotte alone with him to recover, but he knew it was mostly because there were no better options presented her. After all, as soon as the opportunity had become available, she had snuck down to the lair, politely commanding him to bring the sleeping damsel back to the surface. Naturally, Erik had obeyed knowing that protesting for any reason was useless and stupidly selfish. He had carried Christine gently to the Madame's quarters, leaving immediately afterwards.

Antoinette had loved him as a mother loved a son and he suspected that her motherly emotions were not completely vanquished, but buried under years of hurt and disappointment. Yes, he admitted to hurting her, betraying her even. Lotte's harsh and abrupt departure had left him wounds that were raw and incurable. His pain had fed his hatred. His hatred had led to things, actions that would condemn any other man to prison; thieving, forgery, lying, kidnapping…murder—to name but a few of his sins.

Yet, a small part of him dared to hope; to hope that all could change; that _he_ could change.

* * *

"Get. Out."

Daaé's lower jaw sent warnings of pain through her face, but her teeth continued to grind harshly, and her words barely hissed through audibly.

The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny— heir and only living son to the Count Philibert de Chagny, son to the late Countess de Chagny _née _de Moerogis de La Martyniere, only nephew to his father's long dead sister, Aminta Cerise Daaé _née_ de Chagny, and cousin to her only child, Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé—stood tall and confident in the room, breathing heavily from his run from the upper floors to Antoinette's private rooms. His green-blue eyes were locked upon Lotte, who was sitting up tensely on the bed.

"_Get OUT!_" She shouted at him again. Her fingers were like claws clutching the sheets of the bed.

Raoul's own jawline became hard as stone and his eyes flashed with ire, but when he spoke it was even and controlled, if somewhat cold.

"Madame, Meg. Will you please leave us for a moment?"

"I don't think—" Meg started.

"It was not a suggestion, mademoiselle." De Chagny cut her off, "Young Daaé and I need to speak. Alone."

Marguerite turned to her mother, who had remained by the door ever since she had let Raoul enter. Antoinette glanced at Christine. The girl did not meet her gaze, but continued to glare at the male presence standing in the room. Giry sighed. She had hoped it would not come to this so soon; just as she had wished other things had never had happened. But what was done was just that—done.

"Meg, outside."

"Mother—"

"_Now_, Meg." Marguerite looked doubtfully between the two cousins, obviously torn betwixt obeying her mother and standing by her young friend.

"Marguerite. Now." The blond woman hesitated then shook her head sadly. She walked towards Christine and planted a soft, encouraging kiss on the girl's sweating forehead.

"I'm sorry." Meg whispered. With that, mother and daughter left.

Raoul did not speak for a good few minutes, studying his cousin intently. She sat unmoving, her right ankle bandaged heavily and wearing a clean, modest chemise. The only sound was that of Christine's labored inhalations and exhalations.

"What happened to your foot?"

His cousin did not respond verbally, but by the way her eyes narrowed it was response enough. In a longsuffering manner, he sighed moving to sit at the edge of the bed Lotte occupied. She hissed angrily scooting away as far away from him as possible.

"Acting like this will get you nowhere, Lotte. It fact it might get you on a stage back to Marseille. I'm sure your father doesn't approve of this trip. "

"Do not _touch_ me."

"I don't wish to," Raoul replied, soundly oddly light and amiable in his tone, "I wish to talk to you."

Christine glowered at him with unconcealed wrath in her usually docile irises. Silence was de Chagny's only reply for another space of time. But Raoul's patience was wearing thin. Silence in a conversation was not something he usually experienced from the opposite sex. And he didn't like it.

"Stop sulking." He snapped.

"Stop speaking."

"Your immaturity has reached new heights, Daaé. I'm impressed."

"Your hypocrisy and narcissism has reached new depths. I'm sure even Satan himself has not explored abysses so low." Christine bit back, not missing a beat, "Frankly, I'm not surprised."

"Enough! Shall I reach the heart of the issue for you?" Raoul leaned forward suddenly, his face close to Christine's. "You hold every foul emotion in your being at my fault yet you believe that piece of circus slime innocent when you know very well he isn't. Why?"

"Leave Erik out of this!"

Raoul laughed humorlessly. "That, dearest cousin, is not possible. Erik is the heart of the problem, hm? In fact, I daresay he is, and always was, the root of it all."

"Erik's past shortcomings _as a child_ had nothing to do with _your_ lack of loyalty and betrayal."

"It is not betrayal when you are protecting an innocent from a plague-ridden sewer rat—"

Christine suppressed an exclamation of rage as she slapped Raoul across the cheek. "Spare me your lies and deceit. Nothing that comes out of your mouth will ever make me forgive you for what you caused to happen. I will never, _ever_, stop hating you until breath leaves my body. Even then may my bone's dust choke you."

De Chagny sat, immobile, staring at Christine in an unbroken gaze. Lotte, defiant, stood her ground. Several moments later, Madame Giry's door slammed shut as a blond-headed man flew out of the room.

* * *

_They say that this youth has set my lady's heart aflame!_

_His lordship sure would die of shock!_

_His lordship is a laughing stock!_

_Should he suspect her, God protect her…_

'_Il Muto…The singularly most annoying opera I have ever heard…_'

Indeed, Carlotta's inevitable flamboyant performance was Erik's only consolation. At least then, she would still make a fool of herself even if the none-the-wiser patrons did not understand the art of vocal rendition. However, he wondered how long that consolation would help him ignore the ringing in his ears.

With the well-being of his hearing on his mind, Erik had quickly devised a concoction to aid him in getting Carlotta off the stage as soon as possible. With the cast members' focus on the rising curtain, he had switched the Italian woman's vocal spray with his own bottle of useless liquid; of course, not entirely useless. It was a water-based irritant, harmless to everything except Giudicelli's vocal chords.

_Serafimo—your disguise is perfect!_

'_Assuming that anymore harm could be done to that woman's curse of a voice… of all the screeching demons in France why _this _woman?'_

Erik had quickly disposed of the woman's original foul-smelling bottle spray, hoping to leave the busy backstage unnoticed. The Phantom had other business to conduct than simply sabotage Carlotta.

Box Five was not empty.

The occupant was none other than his _dear_ friend the Vicomte. Unluckily for de Chagny, he was alone in the box, leaving Erik the freedom to converse with the man. The foul countenance with which Raoul entered the theatre had immediately alerted Erik to the fact he had spoken with Christine. And_ that_ fact alone, aside from the issue of his box, was worth investigation.

A rapid gasp, however, suddenly brought the masked man out of his musings. He quickly wrapped his cloak tighter about him and backed into the shadows. After a brief pause, Erik dared to crane his neck up to where he had heard the sound. He growled under his breath.

Buquet. The accursed stagehand had spotted him.

* * *

Christine Daaé was getting out.

She didn't care if Antoinette had warned her to stay put; the woman had lied about Erik. She didn't care if Meg had said everything would be alright; she knew as well as anyone it wasn't. And she most certainly didn't care if Raoul had threatened to send her back to the coast; he had ceased to be of any importance the day he betrayed her and Erik.

That fact alone made little Lotte bear down and rise out of bed. Christine was getting _out_. She didn't care where; anywhere but being cooped up in Antoinette's room.

The only thing that mattered at this point was alleviating the pain in her foot enough to walk through the opera house. Perhaps, she could even find Erik…

Using the back of a chair for support, Lotte hobbled to Giry's desk, searching for the old bottle of laudanum the older woman always had on hand. After searching briefly, Christine procured the glass bottle, swallowing a mere ounce or so; enough to dull the pain, but not send her into the waiting arms of Morpheus.

However, walking on a broken ankle without anything to bear the brunt of moving was hardly wise. Once more using the chair, Christine scooted over to the large armoire, fumbling about in the dark closet until she found Antoinette's spare cane. Indeed, the woman was prepared for anything.

Christine tested the cane as she limped towards the door. It wasn't perfect, but it would do for her purposes. She then looked down at herself. Madame Giry had, whilst she slept, changed her into another chemise. Christine frowned.

'_Chemises are becoming more and more of a headache aren't they? Long enough to cover every inch of skin yet still considered undergarments…' _

She tried not to think about what had happened with Erik. Obviously, the situation had been purely innocent and coincidental, but it had been most embarrassing to the point of mortification.

No matter. She was still leaving the room. Going back to snatch a suitable robe from the armoire, Christine felt satisfied. Opening the door, stepped out into the halls.

She was greeted by the sound of screaming.

"The Phantom of the Opera! He killed him! He killed Buquet!"

* * *

A/N: Translations: ma fille= my girl, mon cherie=my dear, Arrêt = stop!


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17: Opera Populaire, Paris, France 1881_

Hysterical ballerinas bounded to and fro at the further end of the hallway, screaming and crying incomprehensibly.

"…ghost!"

"Buquet…"

"Dead!"

"The Phantom of the Opera…"

A young girl, her reddish-brown hair flowing madly behind her, rushed past Christine. Christine immediately recognized the maiden. Reaching out quickly, Lotte grabbed the girl determined to get an explanation for the madness.

"What's happened?"

Young Elizabeth Lancaster's voice was thick with fear as she clutched Christine desperately.

"Oh mademoiselle! The Opera Ghost! He's killed Joseph Buquet!"

"The ghost? He's but a myth-"

"_Non!" _Elizabeth shook her head frantically, _"Non_ mademoiselle we saw him! Everyone… the ballerinas, they were on the stage and-and…"

Tears spilled down the girl's face in streams; her throat tight as she shook her head again as if she was trying to dislodge the horrible sight of Buquet's body hanging…

Christine held the girl firmly by the shoulders, a creeping fear she could not interpret beginning to steal into her.

"Elizabeth, please," She asked, trying to keep the child clam amidst the turmoil of the cast, "Tell me what happened."

The girl shook her head fiercely, "_Non_, I can't—"

"Please!" Christine let a hint of desperation color her voice. She didn't know why, but she knew whatever the girl had seen she had to know also. "What happened to this 'Buquet'? Who killed him?"

Elizabeth shuddered. "H-he…Joseph was strangled by the g-ghost."

The young damsel hiccupped as a new wave of sobs hit her slight frame.

"I looked up, mademoiselle… I saw him…Buquet… hanging by the neck…a man was… standing over him…the rope…in his hands…his horrible face covered…by a mask…a white mask…"

Christine's heart stopped, a violent horror crawling up the back of her legs up to her neck.

'_No…mon dieu, please, no…'_

* * *

'_Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.'_

The Phantom of the Opera was deaf; all he could hear was his pounding heart as the last remnants of adrenaline coursed through him. The Phantom of the Opera was blind; all he could see was the man's last gasps as his legs thrashed aimlessly at the end of his Punjab lasso. And the Phantom was mute; his teeth clenched in wrath.

And it all felt _wonderful._

A sick, sinister surge of dark pleasure swept over him as he spun his black cloak about him, blending into his refuge of the shadows. No regret followed him as he stole through the backstage, completely unnoticed by the screaming opera house around and below him.

'_Let them scream… let them feel fear as I have felt…'_

"_O Vierge! Avoir la pitié!" _An unknown woman's plea reached his ears; it made him smirk cruelly. An agonizing pulling of his lips until his white teeth glared with terrifying brutality.

"_Yes_," he sneered, his voice low and disturbing, "_Beg _for mercy…_beg_ like the dogs you all are. You have received no less than you deserve."

Indeed, Buquet's death had been inevitable. Whether by the random hands of a drunkard or Erik's purposeful ones, the man had Death's visit close at hand. Like every man, he had to pay his debts. Erik had just collected the payment.

"_Like yellow parchment is his skin… A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew…you must be always on your guard or he will catch you with his magical lasso!"_

The Phantom laughed. His eyes blazed with uncontrolled fire, and his body stood tense and erect. He laughed until his ribs were sore and tears streamed down his face.

Revenge was so sweet.

Oh, so sweet.

* * *

The sight was decidedly gruesome. A large, bulky man lay crumpled on Opera Populaire's stage, a rope coiled around him, his thick face still red from struggle, and his eyes wide and lifeless.

Pandemonium had struck the unsuspecting patrons as a blacksmith's hammer had struck an anvil; suddenly and with unmeasured force. The crowd had run out has if the very hounds of Hades were at their heels. Screams and shouts of shock were still heard around all parts of the theatre as Christine stared at the body.

Ignoring all hints of pain, Christine had hobbled toward the stage after her brief conversation with Elizabeth. The girl's words spoken through sobs had made her come to see for herself.

She wished she hadn't.

"Lotte!"

Christine was suddenly being pulled away in the direction of backstage. She looked up at the force who was leading her.

"Raoul…"

"It's not safe here! Come, follow me."

Too stunned to protest, she allowed her cousin to take her by the arm and lead her through a throng of frenzied persons towards a winding wooden staircase. The young man flew up the stairs with odd aristocratic grace, Christine trailing numbly behind him.

The higher they climbed the less the din of the opera house assailed their ears. But the air grew chiller, and the shadows darker as the cries faded to disturbing shrills in the air.

Raoul pushed open a door at the end of the hall, and winter air told Christine they had escaped to the roof. The cold caused her to shiver back to her senses. She wrapped her arms around herself.

"Why have you brought us here?" she asked.

Raoul had turned his back to her when they had stepped out into the dark night. Now, Christine saw that his shoulders were tense. He appeared truly troubled; Lotte was confused.

"Raoul?" She asked with caution, unsure what territory she was treading with her unpredictable relative.

"I—I am sorry, Lotte."

The apology was spoken with such sincere reverence and regret, Christine gasped.

"What?" She moved to stand in front of him, her eyes wide with confusion. The Vicomte turned away, not meeting her gaze, but Christine had caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were wide with shock and realization.

"I…I didn't mean for this to happen, cousin." He still did not make eye contact, choosing instead to look over the twinkling lights of the city. "It was not my intention to bring this upon you. My arrogance blinded me…"

The young heir shook his head sadly, seemingly caught in his own musings. Christine's features grew dark with resentment.

"All this I know. As I have told you before, I will never forget nor forgive what you caused to transpire." She snorted, in a manner quite unbecoming to young woman. "Yet, you still choose to mock me. I know not what your twisted mind has conceived now, but I will not fall prey to its devices again. Leave me in peace, Raoul."

She tried to brush past him, meaning to make her exit immediately. Raoul's sudden grip on her arm stopped her in her tracks.

"You misunderstand me, Christine. I did not come here to insult you over the matter of our offenses. Rather, the subject over which the offenses started."

Young Daaé whirled on him quickly, venom filling her brown eyes and voice.

"I told you to leave him out of this!"

"Tonight's incident was not mere happenstance." Raoul was strangely desperate in his tone, ignoring Lotte's vehement retorts without so much as flinching. "The Opera Ghost killed the stagehand."

"So my cousin, the Vicomte de Chagny, has resorted to believing ghost stories? Really, you have spent too many nights with the ballet girls."

"I am not a superstitious man, Christine. You know that. But stories of a demented and hideously deformed man living under these foundations are hardly myth. We both know what secret the opera house holds."

Raoul held Christine's angry gaze, noticing how it flickered with just hints of doubt. Surprisingly, he felt truthfully sorry for her. He retained no sympathy for Erik whatever, but little Lotte…she was a slightly different matter. A part of him, very deep down, under layers of buried emotion, hated to tell her what he knew to be fact.

"Christine," de Chagny dared to place his hands on her shoulders, letting her know his seriousness. "Erik _is_ the Phantom of the Opera. _He_ killed Joseph Buquet."

* * *

Raoul de Chagny, the pompous aristocratic brat, had never surprised the Phantom of the Opera. Ever. Not even when he had betrayed Lotte's secret; he had known that was coming even if Christine hadn't. But now he was startled.

"_Erik is the Phantom of the Opera. He killed Joseph Buquet." _

Catching a glimpse of a familiar curly-headed maiden being dragged through the throng, Erik had immediately snapped to attention. He had followed them, tiptoeing on the support beams above. He slipped through a small window onto the roof and hid behind a statue of a rearing horse. Eavesdropping stealthily, he had expected the two estranged relatives to soon argue incessantly, and they had; until Raoul mentioned him and his alias.

That was a bit unexpected; disconcerting even. The masked man had not thought Raoul had pieced two and two together. Erik couldn't help but let a low growl escape his throat; he underestimated how much Raoul had heard around the Populaire.

"You're lying!" Christine's pleasant voice was strained, hitting him at the core.

'_No, not like this….she wasn't supposed find out like this…'_

"I'm lying?" Raoul replied incredulously. "Listen to yourself! Is so hard to believe that Erik would murder a defenseless man in cold blood? He did it as a child, Lotte and he's been doing it here for almost a decade."

"And you chose now to tell me? Why not before when you found me by the docks in Marseille years after I left Paris? Why not then? Why not this morning when you were insistent on destroying my loyalty to a childhood friend?"

"Does it matter?" Their voices had reached high and loud pitches, betraying the intense subplot of what had always underlain Raoul's and Christine's relationship. "By the Virgin, woman, stop questioning and _think_! Does this not all seem to have happened before?"

Sounds of heavy breathing followed, Daaé not immediately responding. Keeping his cloaked figure pressed to the stone of the statue, Erik ventured to peer around its corner.

Christine stood, hair askew, shivering a bit against the chill wind, dressed only in a long chemise covered by a worn wool robe. Raoul stood opposite her, still dressed formally in his opera attire. Wisps of frozen breath escaped from their mouths and nostrils.

"What do you mean?" Lotte asked.

"The gypsy, Christine."

Erik clenched his fists, ready to strike out at the man. What did Raoul know of what that animal had done him? What gave him the right to mention, let alone try to defend his prejudice, by bringing up an event he knew nothing about?

Christine beat him to the question. "How did you-"

"The Girys." Raoul replied hastily, "The Madame more specifically. She told me once how she found him in that caravan."

"That means nothing!" The girl snapped, on the defensive again. "You can't possibly think you know about Erik's past and then blame him for what happened tonight!"

"I know enough!" her cousin bit back, "I know the man was strangled. All of the victims of this opera house in the last ten years have been choked to death."

"You have no proof Erik's behind all this!"

"Buquet did! Don't ask me how but he did. And he was marked man because of it. He knew the Phantom was a masked man. _Erik_ is a masked man. "

"This is all speculation and ghost stories." Christine said, still fighting for her best friend's honor. "You can't possibly expect me to believe these lies."

Raoul threw up his hands in defeat, his argument, no matter how sound, was falling on ears which failed to comprehend what he was saying.

Erik couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. Daaé wasn't willing to convict him, even though—as loathe as he was to admit—Raoul was right. He leaned back a bit into the cold stone, sighing silently. He had not lost her yet…

"If you won't believe me, believe Antoinette." Raoul's voice came across the crisp air as desperate. Erik knew he was playing his last card to convince the girl. And the card was of value.

"Raoul, enough! Listen to me-"

"No, you listen!" Raoul shouted, grasping Christine so firmly he was shaking her. "Why do you think Antoinette told you Erik was dead?"

"She lied." The words were spoken with hurt. Christine looked away from the Vicomte's fierce gaze her eyes sorrowful.

"No, she didn't." Raoul spoke softly, gently, knowing what he was about to explain would hurt his little cousin. "Christine, listen to reason. To those who once might have mattered to him, he is dead. He is a murderer. A thief, extortionist. Erik is a criminal."

"_Non_," Christine looked back up at Raoul, her stamina in the debate wearing down, but not gone. "He helped me Raoul. Last night…I was injured, and he helped me. Saved me. I would have died if he hadn't—"

Suddenly, de Chagny interrupted. "The trap you fell into, it was in the Grand Foyer, no?"

Christine tensed, visible fear beginning to crawl over her. Erik flinched when he noticed the swirls of hesitation pulling at the edges of her dark irises.

"Yes, but—"

"Erik built that trap, Lotte. Just as he has built all the others spread all over this opera house. You know how extensive the underground is in these old foundations. We both know no one knew them better than Erik."

Christine's eyes grew wide, and her jaw fell slack.

"Christine, all the variables are too coincidental. _Erik is the Phantom_."

Erik's heart dropped, unable to watch how the girl's confidence slowly began to wither before his eyes. She shook her head, mouth agape as all of the facts struck her.

'_Now you've lost everything…forever…'_

* * *

"I…I don't believe you."

"Lotte—"

"No, _no!"_ Christine wretched away from de Chagny, "I d-don't believe you…"

Raoul bowed his head, shamefully. "I'm sorry, little cousin. I…I never thought it'd come to this."

"_Arrêt …arrêt! Arrêter avec les mensonges. ..I sait ce n'être pas vrai…_it's not true…I don't…I don't believe you…"

Sobs began to weaken young Daaé, wracking through her young frame as emotions stronger than she could bear sent her once again into panic. She fell to her knees, not feeling the snow creep into her clothing and skin. All she could feel was the aching pain in her chest that intensified as all clues fell into place.

She had known something had changed in him. Back in the lair, she had seen the change in his eyes. There was anger, there was menace, and there was hate. Her Erik had changed into something she had hoped he would never become. A man, driven by hate as hate had been shown to him; solely because of an unpreventable birth defect.

Christine felt a large hand on her shoulder.

"_Allez_…leave me…"

"I can't leave you up here alone-"

"Raoul let me be….please."

The young man hesitated. He swept a wary gaze around the rooftop not sure why he felt as if he was being watched. He glanced back down at Christine; he knew there was nothing he could do to comfort her. This was a loyalty, a friendship he did not understand nor condone. But he felt he had to respect her wishes nonetheless.

"As you wish, Lotte."

Raoul placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Christine didn't bother to look up. When the crunching of his shoes had stopped and the door had clicked closed, the damsel couldn't help but let out a strangled cry.

How long she remained like that, prostrate in the snow, her head in her hands, her hair decorated by snowflakes with tears streaking paths down her cheeks—she never knew.

Christine didn't hear the painfully slow rhythm of booted feet coming towards her. She didn't see the heavily cloaked man, a snow-white half mask the only feature of his person not consumed by shadow. She didn't hear his muffled groan of despair when he approached her sobbing form. Nor did she notice when he knelt in front of her.

But she felt his gloved hand brush her cheek.

"_S'il vous plaît arrêter." _The rough tenor voice whispered in perfect French.

"_Je suis en chagrine monsieur. Me permettre d'être."_

In her anguish, Christine did not recognize the male's voice. The man's hand stilled on her face. Lotte didn't care enough to brush it away.

"_Pourquoi êtes-vous dans l'angoisse?" _The unknown man asked. His voice was thick.

"_Parce que je l'ai perdu très cher à me. Je l'ai perdu j'aime."_

The hiss of the wind blowing was the only sound for a moment. The man's question was hardly heard over it.

"_Qui?"_

At the simple question, a harsh, raw sob pressed its way through her lips.

"I…I dare not say his name, _monsieur_, or I will lose him completely."

The man's hand slipped under her chin, forcing her to look up.

Erik's blazing green eyes were solemn and subdued. Christine could still see suggestions of focused rage on the edges of his eyes; but they were dulling under the darkness of the cool night.

Christine wasn't surprised to see him so soon after the trauma of the evening. For as long as she had known him, he had always seemed to appear at the most opportune moment. Whether it was for the best of the situation or not.

Tired and cold, Christine's instinctive emotion to seek comfort in her close friend manifested itself. She leaned forward, resulting in her head resting in the man's chest. Foreseeably, he tensed as he had before, but did not pull away.

The Phantom managed to look down at the mass of curls flowing out of his chest. He momentarily considered tugging at one of the strands to distract himself; but Lotte's voice cut him short.

"Tell me you didn't do it."

Erik didn't have to ask what she was referring to. It did not, however, make it any easier to broach the topic. So he didn't and remained silent. Others might have called answering Christine's serious inquiry with silence as cowardly. He called it the art of sparing himself uncomfortable chatter. Perhaps, it was cowardly, but it protected him nevertheless.

"No, Erik," Christine lifted her head to face him, her expression of pain almost making Erik avert his stare. "Tell me you didn't kill that innocent man."

"Buquet wasn't innocent." Erik spat out before he could check his words.

Christine swallowed hard, not speaking for a good while. As the minutes ticked by, Erik continued to feel worse. The price for his temper and resulting actions were costly. The way Christine had trusted him so freely back in the lair and now…the way she was looking at him was enough to undo him.

"I am not the Erik you used to know." He confessed quietly, "That boy is gone. A monster has taken his place."

"Don't say that!" Christine grasped the front of his vest.

"Stop lying to yourself!" Erik pried her fingers off him, abruptly standing. "I know what I am. A deformed, hideous creature. A loathsome gargoyle. I burn in hell daily, Christine! Yearning for that which I will never have. A beast dreaming of a fanciful and secret sense of beauty. It is hopeless."

"It is not hopeless! Nothing is ever hopeless, Erik." She slowly stood as well, the snowflakes flurrying in circles as she did so. "I do not believe it. Let me be naïve and blind so I can hope for the both of us, Erik. And I will hope that one day you will see yourself through my eyes."

Her eyes grew serious, her voice steady and measured. She would get through to him.

"You are my friend Erik. I've always known what you were capable of, but I know that not all of it is cursed. I don't care what they call you, Phantom, Opera Ghost...it matters not. You will always, _always_ be Erik to me. My best friend. _Mon meilleur ami._"

Erik turned his back, facing the dark night with apprehension. What Christine was saying was dangerous. She was willing to overlook his faults, his sins, to offer her friendship. Friendship she wouldn't give up; because she believed in him. It was reckless to do so, Erik could on a whim, could cause a rift between them that could never be bridged no matter what sense of loyalty one had. He knew, though every part of him wanted to deny it, he didn't want that. He wanted Christine in his life. A bright gleam in his nightmares. A beacon of hope on his troubled sea. But it wouldn't be easy…

"Trust me."

Erik sighed, his logic weakening under what his emotions were telling him.

'_Trust her…she's giving you a second chance to be a man…to live like a human being….she is giving you a reason to live…'_

Erik shook his head. It was too risky. He turned towards her.

"Christine—"

"_Me fier, mon ami. Me fier."_

"You are asking too much of me, Christine. Antoinette will warn you…"

"I am asking you to try. For my sake, Erik. For the sake of friendship."

Those wide, innocent eyes stared up at him…and he could deny them nothing. He nodded.

"Alright. I will try, Christine, I will try."

* * *

A/N: Translations: Non=No, O Vierge! Avoir la pitié!= O Virgin! Have mercy! , Arrêt …arrêt! Arrêter avec les mensonges. ..I sait ce n'être pas vrai…= Stop..stop! stop the lies… I know it's not true, Aller=go, S'il vous plaît arrêter.= Please stop, Je suis en chagrine monsieur. Me permettre d'être= I am in pain monsieur. Let me be., Pourquoi êtes-vous dans l'angoisse ?=Why are you in auguish?, Parce que je l'ai perdu très cher à me. Je l'ai perdu j'aime=Because I have lost someone dear to me. I have lost someone I love, Qui?=Who?, Mon meilleur ami =My best friend, Me fier, mon ami. Me fier=Trust me, my friend. Trust me.


	18. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

"Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé where have you been?"

"_Maman_?" Christine asked weakly.

Unintelligible exclamations of French curses flew quickly out of Madame Giry's mouth, surprising both Christine and Meg, who had followed her mother's predatory hunt through the halls.

"We have been worried into a grave over you! It is not safe to be meandering about when the opera house is in an uproar! Is my head not grey enough?"

The Madame's blunt words were considerably softened by the fierce embrace she enclosed upon Christine. Meg couldn't help but smile, exhausted from the night's excitement, but amused by her mother's actions.

"I am sorry _Maman_." Christine said sincerely.

"Where were you? We thought something had happened when we didn't find you in the room." Meg asked, wrapping a supportive arm around the younger girl's waist. Christine had begun to limp again, the laudanum had wearing off long before.

"I needed...some fresh air."

"And where did you seek this air?" Antoinette asked suspiciously.

Christine exchanged a nervous glance with Meg.

"On the rooftop?" she replied, knowing lying would be useless.

"With your ankle?" Meg asked uncertainly.

"I had some…help."

"Who's?"

Christine shrugged. "The Vicomte's."

Antoinette raised a surprised eyebrow and Meg frowned in confusion.

"But why would Raoul-"

But before Meg could finish, she was stopped as some odd recognition hit her. It was then the Giry women truly noticed the nature of the long black cloak Christine had wrapped around her slim body. No woman within all of Paris' borders owned a cloak of that frightening cloth. Antoinette grew pale. Meg was speechless.

After a moment, Meg dared to ask, her voice close to a squeak.

"Erik?"

Christine nodded. "Yes. I saw him briefly."

The women neeeded to hear no more. Immediately, spluttering in French and other languages assailed her ears. Reprimand after curse screeched from the women's mouth as they dragged her back towards Antoinette's room. Christine knew she wouldn't be leaving their watch for a long time.

'_Ai…this is going to be a long night…'_

Over the din of the Girys, Christine could've sworn she heard a suppressed moan of exasperation from behind the walls.

_~La Fin~_


End file.
